Detoured on Some Random Backwoods Path to Hell
by Don'tWaitForLife.FightForIt
Summary: Winter is Coming. Death rides upon the Wall. A girl from our World passes through the veil between Realms; she wears Death as a shadow. And now she must play the Game of Thrones. In this she has no choice. But how she does so, is of her own choosing. Will she walk through the fires of Hell and come out unscathed? DISCONTINUED Sorry...
1. Prologue

Her life ends and begins in darkness. Cloaked in the cold, suffocating in the silence. She sees nothing. Hears nothing. Water pricks at her skin, like a thousand icy needles, begging for her to just scream.

' _Scream_ ,' she thinks. ' _Just scream_.'

It's a strange sensation. To feel the life literally drain from you. It starts at your fingers and toes. A cold sweep that gently numbs your muscles, rising slowly up your limbs. The fighting, the thrashing, it never seems to stop, even when she can't feel it anymore. This is the easy part.

The closer the ice draws itself, crawling, groping its way across her skin, through her veins like a sickeningly sweet caress, the closer it grows to her heart, the harder it becomes.

' _Scream.'_

Lungs crave, cry. Her mouth grows dry. Yet all she can do is bite down.

' _Scream.'_

At some point, she hears silence dissipate. She hears a pounding. She thinks someone's found her; that they're trying to get her attention. But there's no one there. Only a salty darkness, clawing at her eyes as they strain to see through.

' _Scream. They'll hear you. All you have to do is scream.'_

It's her heart. The thundering drums. The deafening timpani. It drives her mad. She wants to block it out. She wants to stop it. She can't.

' _Scream.'_

Louder and louder. Faster and faster. Like a timer, increasing with speed as it ticks down the last moments of this life.

She always supposed time would slow down before you die. That she would see flashbacks of her life. Of her parents, of her friends. Every time she laughed. Every time she cried. Every mistake she made. Every lie she told. Every time she'd sing. Every cherished moment on the wards. Ironically, she remembers a time she used to swim.

She wants to laugh.

She wants to cry.

She wants to scream.

' _What have you got left to lose? Scream.'_

They say when you're drowning all the pain, the suffering, the agony disappears in the last moment. That a single bubble of oxygen, find it's way to your brain. It fills you with a sense of euphoria… then you pass in peace.

She stills her movements, though she stopped feeling them long ago. Her icy lids slowly slip close. She allows herself to entertain one last thought.

It's not a memory.

It's not a word.

Scream.


	2. Reality is a Nightmare

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R. R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **NADIA**

Brown eyes flicker open slowly, gaze falling lazily on the white sunlight that streams through the small window onto the rustic wooden floor. For some still seconds, tiny dust particles floating, twirling, rising and falling in that lone stream of light is all that captures her attention. Turning away, her eyes flutter shut. She buries herself deeper in the furs, inhaling their sweet mountain scent. For the moment, she is content.

But only for the moment.

Startling, the young woman whips her head around to the window again. Stone. Rising till she's on her knees, she examines the room about her.

Gone are the cream walls and wooden cubbies, the five foot oak chest-of-drawers and dresser. Gone is the mammoth study desk that should be overrun with textbooks and nursing journals. Gone are the diagrams and brainstorms, the panelled artworks and fairy lights. Gone is the floor-to-ceiling window where she'd loved to watch the rain, as well as the twenty year old stereo she'd cherished so. In their place is Stone. Stone. And more stone. Asides from the bed she rests on, the only other furniture is a chair beside the bed and two more by the fireplace, a tall mirror, a bedside chest and a small writer's desk settled beneath a lone window seat.

Her first thought is, ' _Where am I?'_ Closely followed up by, ' _Maybe I'm dreaming.'_ Her next thought is not so much a thought as it is a realisation of a dull burning in her chest. With each breath she takes, she feels it build up just a little, like a relentless throb in her side that quickly subsides before arising again and again. Her hands move to massage the soreness, stilling when her fingers reach the bandage. It's now that she realises her state of undress too. A mere bra and panties and a dressing around her lower ribcage is all the protects her fragile modesty.

Stumbling out of bed, barely avoiding tripping over the entanglements of sheets and furs someone had draped her with, the woman clambers towards the mirror. The image she beholds looks a little worse for wear: bruised knuckles, a nasty gash above her right brow that's been stitched and, most evidently, ugly yellowing, purpling bruises above her diaphragm and xiphoid process. Peeling away the bandage, she tries to hold back whimpers of pain, her ribs crying in defiance to the action.

' _What the fuck happened to me?'_

Running her fingers through short, loose curls Nadia wracks her brain, desperate to recall her last moments before she'd evidently blacked out. All that springs to mind is a heaviness upon her chest, a sensation of suffocating, a panic that sets in her bones. It's a blackness that drowns her thoughts and when she manages to resurface, she's fallen to her knees, leaning heavily on the mirror, breath hoarse and panting. And still clueless as to her predicament.

Leaning back she stares openly at her reflection. ' _This isn't real,'_ she tells herself. Closing her eyes tight, she counts to ten before opening them again. The room around her is unchanged, and her reflection is still as battered as before. Dropping her dark gaze to her hands, she stares at them. She's read that the appearance of hands and feet is a good indicator of whether one is dreaming or not. When dreaming if you focus long enough, hands will become disproportionate, polydactyl even because of the lack of an actual physical visual stimulus. She hopes for this, as odd as it seems. Yet nothing happens. Her tawny hands remain as they are. Perfectly normal. Ten fingers. Ten toes.

Blowing a loose raven lock from her face, the confused and scared woman's eyes land on the large, practically ancient doors behind her.

Empty hallways welcome her curiosity. Silent, almost hauntingly so. The soft patter of her footfalls are her only company. The poor thing has no shoes to protect them from the iciness of the stone floors. Tugging at the fur blanket, she burrows in its warmth as much as she can. This is a fact that irks her. The cold has never been much of a bother her before. Not like this. Under ordinary circumstances, she'd be unerringly comfortable in nothing more than a strapped cami and skirt, much to her friends' bemusement. But with each step she takes through these castellan halls, the further away she drifts from ordinary.

Another cool draft curls its way around the corner towards her. It brings with it soft mutterings. Voices. Hugging the shadows, the woman creeps further along these medieval halls. Ahead of her, the moonlight pours through a balcony. Tucking behind a pillar, the woman carefully spies to the ground below. It's the courtyard she had glimpsed from her window before. Men and women flit about their work. At that very moment, she doesn't take too much notice of their odd clothing. A mistake she'll later regret. No, instead she strains her ears, desperate to pick up some conversation or the other.

A set of footsteps alert her to someone approaching from the opposite direction. Her eyes briefly scan the hallway, landing on a small alcove nearby. It's a tight squeeze, but she makes it work, her ribs are greatly protesting the deeper she subjects herself to the shadows. Footfalls grow louder and louder, nearer and nearer. The young woman holds her breath, praying silently to not be discovered. An old man garbed in whites and creams, passes her. She waits patiently for his footsteps to fade, before allowing herself to breathe again.

The ache in her chest grows increasingly uncomfortable with each wheezing breath. It makes her almost want to cry.

To scream.

The thought triggers something within her. A noise. Like a buzz. Only hushed. Voices from the courtyard grow softer with each passing second that the hush grows louder. She barely takes notice that her feet have begun to move of their own accord, taking to the direction the old man appeared from.

Her mind is almost entirely consumed by the swarming noise inside her head.

Louder and louder. Incomprehensible but... familiar.

 _'Whispers.'_

Mind clouding over, an absurd sense of deja vu floods her veins; her body numbs but her senses heighten all the same.

The whispers grow louder. She feels her head spin. Something pounds in her ears. Perhaps it's a migraine. Or perhaps it's her heart. She doesn't know. She doesn't stop. She follows.

 _'What am I following?'_

"Him." When she answers herself, her voice is smaller, softer. It surprises her how childlike she sounds. Vulnerable. Afraid.

Great oaken doors cease her movement. Nadia stands there, torn between going further or retreating. A burgeoning curiosity grows for whatever or whoever lies beyond these doors. Carefully raising her hand, her tawny fingers slide across the smooth wood. Behind its cool touch is a warmth that caresses the pads of her fingertips, slowly ever so slowly treading its way up her arm to her heart. And in her heart she feels a sadness to what lies beyond. A dread. A fear. A broken heart. A broken spirit. Her fingertips inch slowly towards the iron handles.

"What are you doing?" The woman's voice is sharp, firm. Despite the sadness in it, there's a glint of a threat attached to her words. Nadia doesn't turn. She's honestly unsure why. Then words escape her lips. "It was no accident." They feel foreign to her but at the same time, she knows they're her words.A sharp hand digs into her shoulder, spinning her around. There's something familiar about the woman with auburn hair. _'She's sad and afraid,'_ the dark haired girl thinks to herself.

"What did you say, girl?"

"The fall was no accident." She barely registers the woman's grip tightening on her, only that her eyes grow desperate. She wants to know.

"What do you know?"

Nadia replies, her answer ambiguous, "Too much but the game has changed."

The woman splutters. "Game? What game?"

Truthfully she doesn't know either... yet. Instead, Nadia delivers a message far more frightening. "There is no shortage of hired knives. They're coming for him."

The woman's eyes widen. "Who? Who is coming? Why are they trying to kill my boy?" When she doesn't answer, the woman slams her against the door with a strength neither of them thought she possessed. "Tell me!"

The whispers are shouting at her. An overwhelming sense of dread fills her. Nadia tries to block them out but she can't. She vaguely notices the woman's demands, her voice growing louder and more desperate. She vaguely notices two men turn the corner, hastening towards them.

The voices are deafening in her ears, yet she can't understand them. How do these people not hear them? Hands fly to her head. Her eyes screw shut. She feels herself crumbling.

 _Scream._

She wants it to end.

 _Scream._

"Please stop," she whimpers in the woman's arms. The girl feels them release her. She tries to hold herself but her feet give way and she slides to the floor, back against the door. The whispers are enraged, begging to be silenced.

Feeling the last of her self control break, she screams. A short piercing wail, that has the three figures surrounding her back away. But she doesn't care. The whispers have stopped. All but one.

"The game has begun. Be afraid, for Death rides swift." She doesn't look at them when she speaks. Nor when she's finished, to see their reactions. She stares at the stone floor, until the blackness creeps into her sight and unconsciousness takes over.

When Nadia next wakes, long after the sun has set, she's greeted by the stench of manure and mud. She lies in the dirt, hair muddied and clothed in nothing but her underwear and the fur coat that barely reaches her thighs. A cold wind blows, causing her to curl in on herself, tightening her hold on the fur. A single candle burns on a shelf, but its light is sufficient to make out the bars.

"You're awake." Tired eyes flicker from the dirt ground. Somewhere in the darkness, beyond the cage walls, his voice emerges from the shadows, as clear as day. "And you're observant," she quips back, flinches inwardly at the sound of her voice. Hoarse. Broken. It occurs to her, she should be more afraid. But she's too exhausted to feel anything.

"Who are you?"

She bites her cheek, contemplating giving up the information. Her gaze shifts to her shackles. They're already itching at her, tearing at her skin. She tests their sturdiness, but the hold fast to the stone; if anything the small action only caused them to tighten their grip.

His voice breaks through the silence, "You won't be getting out of those without my help. So why don't you tell me who you are, girl."

Lips trembling it takes all of her power to keep the fear out of her voice, and even then she hears the unmistakable quiver on her breath. "Nadia," she answers. Gulping she dares to ask, "Who are you?"

"Robb Stark."

What ensues is long, painful silence. Nadia's head leans back against the wall. She takes little comfort in the cold stone. She takes little comfort in this whole situation. But she can't help but purse her lips in annoyance. Nodding to herself, she breaks the silence, stunning him. "You're fucking kidding me, right?"

"...What?"

"Robb Stark… is this a joke?"

The sound of his feet storming against the stone, bringing him closer and closer to her cage, fills her with a sense of dread. She's an idiot. She's angered him. He'll hurt her. He'll kill her. Her mental rant comes to a standstill, as does he. Just outside the cage, hands gripping the rusted bars. His face… stern, solemn but she can see the cracks in it, the rage behind his eyes. His very familiar eyes.

' _Blue eyes,'_ she realises, ' _Tully eyes…'_

Her eyes glaze over with fear. "This can't be real," she breathes, just above a whisper. "You can't be real." Shaking her head, Nadia swallows deeply. Eyes screw shut, she wishes silently - begs silently - for this to be a dream… a nightmare, a horrible nightmare that she will wake from and laugh about. But when she opens them, he's still standing there.

His eyes narrow at her. "I am Robb Stark of -"

"No!" She yells, ignoring the ache in her chest. "No, no, no. You can't be real. You just can't. Because if you're real that means… that means that I'm..." She loses focus on him, his concerned expression going unnoticed by her. Staring into nothing, she mutters to herself, "I'm dreaming. This is just a dream. I'll wake up and be home… home…" her voice trails off, eyes slipping closed. She tries to recall what home means to her. She remembers cream walls and lots of glass, palm trees and african daisies, jasmines and music and books and tv and…

"Who's going to die?" Her eyes snap open to up to meet his, ice blue clashing with raven black. He's watching her with an indiscernible expression. Her confusion must be written on his face, because he speaks again, slower as if talking to a child. "Last night. You implied to my Lady mother, that **he's** going to die. Who is **he**?"

"I..."

"Is it my brother? Is it Bran?"

"I-I dunno."

"But you said-"

"I don't know. Okay!? I don't know what you're talking about!" His gaze penetrates her, and suddenly she is aware of her indecency. She wants to turn away; to retreat into her small fur blanket and stay there. But she can't. She can't think - her mind is too overwhelmed with trying to figure out what the fuck is going on, holding out the slightest hope that this is some really, really vivid fucking dream. She can't move - her body caught, frozen under the young man's penetrating gaze. And as inappropriate as it is, a small part of her wonders and hopes she at least looks somewhat… decent and that he's not judging her appearance. That of course would be the stupid, naive, exhausted, hormonal teenager part of her.

' _... I need to sort out my priorities,'_ she blinks to herself, trying to focus herself on the situation at hand, particularly on the not-so-fictional character who's looking at her like she's a crazy person. ' _Hell, maybe I am.'_ His blue gaze studies her face, silently trying to ascertain something. He eventually does - or so she thinks - his brows furrowing, a look of realisation marking his handsome features. He utters, "You truly do not remember, do you?"

Slowly, very hesitantly, Nadia nods; it's the slightest, almost inconceivable motion. Her eyes move to the ground by his feet. The sound of metal bolts shifting breaks the silence. Followed by the scrap of metal on stone. It's an agonising noise that sets her teeth on edge. As if this entire situation hasn't.

His feet come into her view. She wants to comment about being able to see her own reflection in his boots. Instead, the nineteen year old bites her tongue. Her head raises to him, just as he crouches before her, feeling his eyes drill into her critically. "Why do you think you are dreaming?"

She answers with a question. "You're Robb Stark?" He nods. "And we're in Winterfell. In Westeros."

He nods again, unsure where she's going with this. She leans away from him, cradling herself. Her gaze drops from his. A few seconds of silence passes between them. Then, in a small voice, barely above a whisper, she says, "I was wrong. This isn't a dream. It's a nightmare."

"I don't unders-"

"You're not real," she shakes her head. "You can't be real."

His hand reaches for shoulder, "My lady, wh-"

"Don't touch me." Her voice is low and shaken but it forces him to retreat. "Pl-please. I don't...You can't, you can't be real, Robb Stark."

With more determination, he softly touches her hand, taking it in his own. "I am real. I'm right here. Please… just help me understand what is wrong." His breath just brushes the side of her face. She doesn't know what he wants. What can she help him understand, when she doesn't even understand, or believe it herself? Pulling her hand away, Nadia doesn't take notice of the way his face falls; doesn't see the confused, disappointed look cast at where they were joined. Swallowing her lips, she screws her eyes shut again. A dull thrumming begins to resonate in her head again, the familiar sign of an oncoming headache. Exhaling deeply, shakily, her eyes blinking rapidly before closing again she replies. "You're just a character in a story. You aren't real."

Nadia doesn't need to look at him to feel the weight of those baby blues. She can almost feel his bewilderment, his questions; his anger that she pulled away, that she didn't give him answers that he wants - needs - to know.

He seems to know when to stop, though. Seeing her, balled in on herself, her walls up, he's smart enough to realise that she's not fit for further questioning at this point in time. Robb rises to leave, glancing back only once as he shuts her cell door.

She hasn't seen Robb Stark for days. Since their unorthodox meeting, he'd visited her only once, trailing behind Maester Luwin who'd wanted to check up on her injuries. The young Lord of Winterfell spoke not a word to her, then. Barely acknowledged her, save for an unsteady glance over her face; he seemed to be searching for something, while simultaneously avoiding letting his gaze linger, as if the very notion of it would be insulting. It took Nadia a few minutes to figure out what that look meant, and by that time he was gone.

Now even days later curled up in her little cage, that look that Robb had given her still haunts her. It's the very same look you would give a homeless man on the street - a sort of sense of entitled guilt, shame, pity… maybe even a little disgust.

Crazy.

That's the word that comes to mind when she thinks what it is that elicits such a look from him. He thinks she's crazy. ' _...Maybe I am crazy.'_ It's a thought that's occupied her mind almost every second of these past few days. How is she here? How does _here_ even exist? Is she dead? ' _No… that doesn't make sense. Why on Earth would Purgatory be inside a book...TV show?'_ Maybe she's in a coma and all this just a dream? ' _Fuck… My parents better not take me off life support.'_

Yawning widely, she fights against the exhaustion that threatens to take her. It seems that even when so abruptly forced into solitude, she cannot seem to gage a moment of peace. Not even in her sleep where those strange voices lead her through doors and rooms, always chasing her into the darkest corners of her subconscious, trapping her, suffocating her; their ominous riddles only furthering to madden and frighten her. And always - always - the scent of blood, of rotting corpses overwhelming her senses. That is until morning comes.

The familiar creak of her door is followed by the old Maester's quiet entrance. ' _I like him,'_ she thinks, returning his kind and most welcome smile with a soft one of her own.

He raises a brow at her, "Singing to yourself, again?"

Smiling lightly, the dark-haired girl shrugs, "I was bored of staring at the wall. Being a prisoner can be rather dull." She can't help that slip of her tongue, her mind far too deprived of sleep these past days. She has the grace to look shameful for her words, but the Maester only smiles gently, almost amused by her snark.

Crossing his hands, the old man moves to sit on the stool across from her. He tilts his head at her. Not for the first time, Nadia has the strangest feeling that he's studying her like she's some specimen for scientific observation.

' _Perhaps I am.'_

"How are you feeling?"

She knows he's referring to her ribs - she still hasn't quite figured out how they got so bruised so badly; perhaps she's had a fall - yet she can't help but feel that he's prodding at something more under surface. Dropping her gaze, she fiddles with the ring on her index. "I'm fine," she nods after a few seconds. The disheartened grunt her gives her implies to Nadia that he doesn't quite believe her. "Do you remember anything?" he asks after a few moments.

He asks everyday. It irks her to the point that if he were anyone else, she'd consider slapping him from her growing frustration. She hates that he asks. Because her answer is always the same.

"No."

It's not from lack of trying, she bloody well knows that. But each time she tries to recall what happened, what brought her here, a blinding white pain echoes throughout her head. And when she wakes up, she's sprawled on the floor, mind-body-soul feeling as if it's been ripped to shreds and put back together haphazardly. She's not sure what's worse: the nightmares or the amnesiac aneurysm.

She'd only ever managed to come away with a date.

"June 18th," the words barely a whisper on her lips.

"Pardon?"

She's forgotten Maester Luwin is there. She shakes her head. Her hands drop to her knees and she turns to better face him, though she still drops her attention to the stone floor. "Nothing. Sorry."

He nods after a moment, choosing to let her comment go. She's glad for it.

"Have you any theories? You say you remember your family, your… world. Can you think of a reason you might have travelled here?"

"No. As far as I'm concerned, this world isn't supposed to exist."

"And yet here we are."

"Right… here we are," she repeats dejectedly, dropping her chin to her knees. She can tell he's frowning without looking at him. Nadia supposes he'd perhaps hoped that her mind has cleared, and whatever fantastical hallucination she's had is gone. ' _Too bad sweetheart.'_

Chewing her bottom lip, her forehead creases more, his words mulling in her head. Slowly, she adds, "I have contemplated… theories."

"Go on."

"Okay, um… there's this myth where I'm from-"

"Your world, you mean?" the old Maester clarifies.

"Yeah, my world," she breathes those last two words. Again she gets that niggling feeling in the back of her head, like there's something really important she should remember. But there's a lot she doesn't remember. In her lonely hours trapped in her cell, with only her mind to keep her occupied, she does recall the Thor storyline. Nadia wonders if such a thing is possible. "Harmonic Convergence."

Across from her, Maester Luwin leans back. The sudden action - as subtle as it is - catches her attention. She eyes his expression curiously. While he betrays nothing, Nadia feels he knows something. "Do you know what that is?"

"No." He's slow to answer. She knows he knows something.

"There's this... ancient culture who believed in the existence of nine Realms. Of course it's all stories nowadays. But in the myths… they believed in a Harmonic Convergence where all the the Nine Realms would align. When this happened, it's said that it created doorways between the Realms…" she drifts off.

"And you believe you passed through one of these doorways." It's not a question, he asks.

She smiles gingerly. "Sounds crazy, right?"

He doesn't reply, only hums noncommittally. But he seems to be in deep thought about something. Maybe he believes her? Or maybe he's just thinking that she really is out of her mind.

"I brought you something," Maester Luwin announces, interrupting the silence. He unveils a pocketbook from his satchel. Taking it from him, Nadia turns the thing in her hands, admiring the intricate leatherwork inlay. There's the thinnest layer of dust, telling her it's not been read in some time. "The Life and Adventures of Elyo Grivas: First Sword of Braavos," she reads, quirking a brow at him questioningly.

He shrugs. "You mentioned you liked to read," he says, rising.

She bites her lips bashfully, unable to keep the wide grin off her face. "Thank you," she answers genuinely, her fingers already working at the pages.

Maester Luwin leaves without much more words, silently promising to drop by again to see her.

Reading the first few lines, Nadia feels her mind begin to slip into that place where she can simply… forget. Simply escape her current issues. It might be a struggle to stay focused on the story, as it always is with her mind never quite able to find that ease; always so easily distracted by a word or sound that draws her attention elsewhere. But for now, she tries; tries to disappear into the pages of a story. Into a world that's not her own.


	3. You can't handle the truth

When his mother or Theon asked him about his interrogation, he quickly shuts down, excusing himself. It stings him with guilt, every time he imagines the fallen look on his poor mother's face. The encounter with the girl had undone her some. Ever since that night, she'd upped her watch over Bran, refusing even to sleep for fear of waking to find Bran dead. Robb found himself cradling her figure a number of times, murmuring soft assurances that he wouldn't let anyone hurt the boy.

Even now, he can barely look at her as he hands her the tea. Just three drops of Nightshade, Maester Luwin told him. As he slips from the room, his fingers curl around the vial in his pocket. Perhaps he could use some too…

Maester Luwin is the only one Robb disclosed the information to. At first he'd wanted to take comfort in that maybe she is mentally deranged, that her ominous words to his mother meant nothing. The kind old Maester had promised to look into it and speak to him.

"You wanted to see me, Maester." The old man looks up from his work. He's been sifting through piles and piles of texts both ancient and current detailing astronomy, astrology, mythology, histories… it gives Robb a sore head just reading the titles. The Maester's eyes barely glance at the young Lord before reburying themselves in his scrolls. "I spoke to the girl."

"And…"

"She's quite pleasant."

Robb's taken a bit aback by his nonchalance. "Quite pleasant?"

Maester Luwin nods, "Didn't talk much, though was a sweet enough creature when she did. Has a penchant for sarcasm, that one does." He pauses from his work, fixes Robb with a thoughtful look. "I suspect she has had some education and perhaps even formal training in healing."

That elicits a raised brow from the younger man. Usually only noble families could afford education, and even then it was unheard of any daughters taking to trades. The girl he'd found looked closer to wildling spawn than a nobleman's heir. He supposes looks can be deceiving. But still… "What makes you say this?"

"She requested a book to pass her time. As I understand it, captivity can be rather dull, my Lord."

Robb rubs his neck sheepishly. He'd thrown a woman amongst the dirt and chained her like a common bitch, and though her cryptic words and loose sanity may have warranted such ill-treatment, deep down he can hear his father berating him for such.

"And the healing?"

"She aptly described her symptoms to me. Accurately diagnosed the concussion and bruised ribs she suffered."

"You're joking."

But the look on the Maester's face told him, he is not. "I'm afraid her rationalising was correct."

"What about this nonsense of her being stuck in a dream?"

"Ah, yes. That."

Robb doesn't like the way the old man avoids his gaze. "You don't believe her do you Maester?"

"No, no. Of course not. But I do believe she believes there is some truth to her words."

"So she is mental." It's not a question, it's a statement. Regardless of whatever her level of intelligence is, Robb is sure that she's somehow deluded herself into confusing reality with fantasy. The Maester is not quite so easy to accept this truth though. "I do not believe she is."

While the old man sift through his texts, in search for something, Robb's eye manages to catch onto something that rather doesn't seem to belong amongst archaic texts. "What's this?" He asks, lifting the papyrus closer to inspect. Maester Luwin briefly glancing at him, before turning his attention back to his search. "The girl sketched that. Quite good, isn't it?"

Robbs grunts, half in agreement, half perturbed. "A dagger?"

The old man shrugs, "She seemed just as surprised, as you my lord."

Robb isn't given a chance to ask for a clarification. Maester Luwin swiftly produces a dusty old volume, opening to a page marked by red silk. His hand stops on top of the page and he turns to Robb. The Maester's voice drops low. "Regarding her sanity, Robb, I was ready to think as you do… I think she was too," Robb felt a little pity for her, "But then she mentioned this to me."

A confused expression consumes Robb's face. The Maester removes his hand from the page, gesturing to Robb to read. Most of it is transcribed in Old Valyrian, but some words he recognises in the Common Tongue. "Convergence? What's a Convergence?"

"The Convergence is an astrological event, said to have supernatural influence on the Realms."

Robb looks up from the page. "Why have I never heard of this?"

"The Convergence is a rare event that occurs every ten thousand years. Evidently that was also when it was first and last recorded by the First Men. The only event to have ever been recorded by the First Men and translated by the Andals. Few texts exist to provide detail, most of which are at the Citadel. Whatever little else are myths and legends, long forgotten by time."

Robb nodded. "So what do we know."

"The Convergence is the alignment of the nine worlds," as if sensing the question on Robb's tongue, the Maester quickly puts in, "an old notion of course that there exist other worlds… still... It is believed during this phenomenon that the boundaries between the worlds become obscured."

"What does that mean?"

Maester Luwin meets the boy's curious eyes, though he's retreated deep into his mind. Robb can see this, can see the cogs turning in the old man's head. He stills himself from probing, knowing the answer can wait. At least it's what he tells himself, but he can't ignore the soft clink of the vial in his pocket and the weary face of his mother that it brings to mind. Eventually the Maester breaks the silence, but his answer is not what Robb is hoping for. "I'm not sure… yet."

With that Robb excuses himself, allowing the Maester to return to his studies. Perhaps with a little patience, he'll reach some conclusion. The notion itself though, seems far too farfetched.

' _Other Worlds? Next the sun will rise in the west, the mountains will crumble, the oceans will dry up and dragons will fly again.'_

He finds himself thinking of Bran sadly. The boy would have a field day with this.

He let's his feet guide him back to his brother's room. His mother's asleep on her knees, her head resting against Bran's side. Her cup lies strewn on the ground, a short distance from her limp fingers. Sighing, Robb reaches down. Lifting her gently, he carries her to bedside chair, laying her there. As he lays a sheet over her, he kisses her head sweetly.

There are no audiences that day. Theon comes by to inform of that, taking vigil by his friend. "What did Luwin say? About the girl?" Theon whispers to him after some time. He tells the Ironborn everything: from Maester Luwin's depiction of a gentle, scared young woman - so unlike the howling wench he'd encountered outside this very room only nights ago - to the phantasmic theories about other worlds and impossible, inconceivable travel between them. When he's finished his tale, Theon looks ready to burst with laughter. Ridiculous, the Ironborn calls it. Nonsense. Stupid. A fairytale. That last one catches Robb off-guard. Because then Theon explains that he has heard of something that sounds an awful lot like the so-called Convergence in a tale he'd heard as a boy from a nomad pirate passing through Pyke. "Ramblings of a drunk whoremonger. I wouldn't be worried, Robb," the older man assures him. Neither notice the ten year old's fist clench, the expression of worry that passes over his unconscious face.

Robb and Theon continue to sit in silence, only offering a few words every now. Robb doesn't know at what point the Ironborn takes his leave, squeezing his shoulder as if to say, "Everything will be alright." He hopes so. He truly does.

* * *

The sound of metal against metal echoed through the field, the next morn. He swipes his steel at the Ironborn's throat, only to be blocked. "No need to cleave my head off, Robbie."

"How could I? The whores would hang me by my feet."

"Don't be jealous," Theon winks, shoving sway.

Robb rolls his eyes, circling his friend. "Of you? Never." Distancing himself, he circles the Ironborn. _'Steady your breath,'_ his father's voice whispers from his memories. Robb keeps his sword raised at an angle, his free hand twitching with anticipation at his side. _'Wait. Patience is the key.'_ And rightfully enough, Theon makes a move. Diving to the right, his sword comes up to catch the younger boy on the shoulder. Swiping away, Robb distances himself some more. He continues to play this. Theon chases, he blocks and moves away, and they repeat. Again and again. It isn't a tactic one would use primarily in battle, but it is a sure way to reserve one's energy. His father taught this to himself and Jon as boys. Finally, Theon gives him an opening. As his sword slides against Robb's own, he stumbles forward, so slightly one would barely notice. But Robb does. Jumping at the opportunity, he sidesteps throwing a blow under his arm, twirling out again before striking the Ironborn in the back, forcing him to his knees.

Dropping his sword, he raises his arms slightly. "Alright, alright. I yield."

Sheathing his sword, Robb helps his friend up.

"She's a lunatic then?" The Ironborn asks, resuming their conversation of the girl, Nadia.

"I'd say so. But Maester Luwin seems to believe there may be some truth to her story."

"Perhaps the Maester is losing his wits to old age."

"Perhaps you'd be wise not to mock a man who has unrestricted access to several poisons, young Greyjoy," the Maester's stern voice sounds behind them. Theon bas the grace to look sheepish, quickly apologising for his words. With a fondness in his gaze, Maester Luwin pats the man's shoulder.

"You have more news of the girl, Maester?" Robb asks.

"Nothing I'm afraid." Robb would be a fool to have missed the hesitance with which the old man spoke. The young Lord knows he hides something. But what? And for what reason? Robb batters down his burgeoning curiosity; he trusts the Maester has good reason for his silence. "A raven has arrived from Castle Black."

"Jon?"

The Maester nods, a slight smile on his face as he hands over the scroll.

Theon claps his hands enthusiastically, reaching to tug the letter from Robb. "And I was just beginning to miss the poor bastard. Do you think his little prick has frozen off yet?"

Robb shakes his head at his friend. Stealing Jon's letter back, Tully eyes pour over his half-brother's words. By the end of the letter, Robb fights the frown threatening to carve itself on his face. Jon's happy. At least it seems that way -his brother never was one to complain, even when he would be just in doing so - yet Robb cannot help the twinge of guilt that he should have done more to keep Jon at his side. At Winterfell. At home.

No. Instead of throwing a childish tantrum like he wanted to, Robb put on a brave face - one that Jon had mirrored so perfectly in confiding his wishes to take the Black. Father had left. His sisters had left. Bran is comatose. He'd wanted Jon to stay. Wanted things not to change. But things would change. _'Winter is Coming.'_

Beside him, Theon looks a little put out that Jon never took the opportunity to fuck a whore in Oldtown. "Celibacy. Honestly I'd rather die than live a day without a woman wrapped around my cock."

"Theon, it would seem all those hours of Old Nan washing out your mouth with soap has taught you nothing," Maester Luwin retorts.

A chuckle escapes Robb's lips. He's glad some things are unchanged. Theon's eyes seem to alight at the noise. Clapping him on the shoulder, the older boy seems to congratulate Robb on finally cracking a smile on that stern, brooding face of his. Though the comment earns him a frown, in the back of Robb's mind he cannot deny there is truth in Theon's words.

These past weeks have taken a toll on the young Lord. With neither father nor mother for guidance as he steps up to the task of Acting Warden of the North, Robb's had his hands more than a little full. Between balancing the accounts, taking audiences, and seeing to every construction project in and around the Castle and Wintertown, he's had to keep up with his previous duties of training with Ser Rodrik as well as take on the Lady of the House's duties in seeing to the servants chores and minding the little one, namely Rickon. If it were not for Maester Luwin, Robb does not imagine he would have survived a day.

He's not had many moments to catch his breath. It's been weeks since he'd last gone riding and days since he's visited the Godswood. Neither the Old gods or the New seem to be willing to answer his prayers anyhow.

So it is unsurprising that the normally cheerful lad has been rather morose as of late. Yet Theon still feels there's a need to jest about it as oft as he can. And as annoying as it is, Robb welcomes it.

When Robb manages to finish his duties long before dusk the following day, he is more than unhappy to find himself trudging across the grounds in search of his youngest sibling. The boy had been nipping at his ankles for the better part of a month now; during a meeting with Winterfell's guards regarding news of Wildling sightings in the Northernmost parts of their kingdom, Rickon had been a prattling nuisance. Robb does not like to think of his siblings as such - he'd always admonished anyone who'd called Jon a bastard, Jon included - yet he could not help snapping at the six year old when his patience had run dry. Rickon had run. Asides from the little guilt he felt at the sight of his brother's tears, he'd not put too much concern onto his welfare. Until now.

Rickon can not be found anywhere. Not in his room or Bran's. Not in the Kitchens. Not with the Septas or Maester. Theon checks the kennels now, while Robb looks inside the armory. Nothing.

Outside the skies turn a dreadful grey as Robb's heart begins to cease with panic.

Grey Wind nips at his ankles, yet he ignores the pup. His mind is far too concerned with drawing up other possible hiding spots, not to mention the growing fear that the boy has left the Castle. With each passing moment, this fear grows. Robb's a few seconds from calling the guards to set out for the boy when Grey Wind's barking picks up. Glancing down at the pup, headbutting his knee to get his attention, he asks what's wrong.

Grey Wind keels its head over its shoulder, staring unbidden into the shadows of the passage leading into the dungeons.

Robb frowns. By his feet, his direwolf tilts its head at him in question. What that question is, he cannot fathom. Presumably fed up with his master's ignorance, the creature starts down the dark and danky passage. Receiving one returning glare from the pup, Robb follows him down.

It's been some days since he set foot here. The cold bites at his skin, even through all his warm layers. It's mostly silent, save for the echoing sound of water droplets from cracks in the ceiling and that of the rain outside.

But then, he hears something else. A soft melodic noise emerging from the darkness, from the far end of the corridor where only a single flame burns. It takes him a moment to realise the girl is singing…

"-emember one night in the drizzlin' rain,

Ro-ound my heart felt an aching pa-ain.

Fare thee well, oh honey, Fare thee well.

As sure as a bird flying high above,

Life ain't worth living, without the one you love.

Fare thee well, oh honey, Fare thee well."

Slowly he edges towards that soft raspy tone. He's so stunned, rapt in bemusement and awe, that he does not see a small figure duck out of the shadows of a cell ahead him.

"One of these days, it won't be long.

You'll call my name, but I'll be gone.

Fare thee well, oh honey, fare thee well.

Fare thee well, oh honey, fare thee well."

Robb is not ignorant to the sadness behind those last words sung. With a heavy sigh, the girl re-trains her gaze from the tiny caged window to the lone candle flame before her. As if gently stroking a child's cheek, her fingers reach for the flame. Close enough to stroke its heat without burning. A heavy silence consumes his prisoner, and so the dungeons.

It may be in his mind alone, but all of a sudden he's very aware of the frigid temperatures here. As if someone has allowed a blizzard to seep into burning room. All the warmth, or whatever little had been there a few moments before, now dissipates.

Darkness and silence befall them.

And then the smallest of voices chirrups up, "Why'd you stop?" With his fingers curled around the bars of her cage, stands Rickon. Shaggydog is curled at his feet.

By his own feet Grey Wind looks like a proud bloodhound having found its game. Ignoring his pup's smugness, Robb makes motion to pull Rickon away. But stops when the girl answers, "I dunno. Got a lot on my mind, I guess."

Rickon nods sagely, as if really considering her words. Though by the looks of it, the boy seems to be brewing over his next question. He doesn't brew long. "Are you a wildling?"

The girl quirks a brow at this. She glances down at herself as if silently questioning her taste of clothing. She then quickly answers in the negative.

"Did you do something bad?"

"No."

"Then my brother shouldn't have locked you up," Rickon replies somewhat bitterly for a lad his age. Robb guesses he's still upset at being dismissed by himself earlier that day.

The girl takes some time to answer, and Robb's surprised by her words… "He had his reasons. From what I've been told, I don't blame him."

"But you didn't do anything."

"I know," the girl smiles softly. "My name's Nadia."

"I'm Rickon. You talk funny." This particular comment elicits a hoarse chuckle from the girl. Robb agrees with the statement, her accent being most conspicuous. Resembling the Southerner's lilt with a far more lazy drawl, it is unlikely to be rooted in Westerosi culture. Perhaps Essos? As if having heard the question on Robb's mind, Rickon asks, "Where are you from?"

Robb freezes, as does she. He studies her carefully, waiting to see if her crazy story is a lie or if she truly believes in it. Then, perhaps Maester Luwin will forget about his impossible theories.. "A land very far from here. You could say it's an entirely different world out there." A discrete smirk makes its way onto her face and even Robb cannot deny her cunning. Telling the truth without telling the truth.

Rickon for one, seems all too intrigued by the girl's answer, for he pushes himself further against her cell. "What's it like? Your home?"

She chews her lip nervously, her eyes training on the flickering flame while she thinks. To Robb, there appears to be a look of deep thought… as if mourning. Silence captivates them. He begins to wonder if she will ever give answer, right as she turns back to Rickon.

"I lived outside a large city, not too far from the mountains. There's a lot of forests and beaches nearby. But out West, is a massive desert-"

"Like in Dorne?"

"Yeah. Where I lived the weather was never still. We used to say it was like having four seasons in one day. It'd be sunshine and blue skies in the morning and a thunderstorm by the early afternoon." Curiosity twinkles in the six year old's eyes, as bright as the moon on a clear night. So Nadia sees no reason to not oblige him with more descriptions of her home. From where he stands, Robb can see her hesitancy to speak dissipate with each passing memory that flashes across her face. A lightness and fondness in her sad expression that makes her all the more vulnerable and small to look at, though the strength in her tone is admirable for one in her position.

She speaks of a city that never sleeps, of festivals and parades; she particularly relishes in describing the many markets of her home, the exotic foods and fashion (at which point Robb cannot help but suppress the roll of his eyes at something so typically female), the books - she diverts on a tangent trying to describe a library that to his ears could rival the Citadel in Old Town. To say that he's surprised is more than an understatement. Despite Maester Luwin's words, he still finds it hard to believe that she's not as common as he first thought her. Looking at this young woman, the young Lord of Winterfell would be easier to call her a common street-rat than someone of high-standing, educated and yet, accent and syntax aside, she speaks in all the professional manner of a nobleman's daughter or at the very least the handmaiden of one.

The girl is most excited to speak of museums, galleries that home art and history, and especially of theatres (the young Lord starts to think she has a strong interest for stories, not unlike his younger siblings). Of course she mentions music. "Just about every street corner, there'd be a musician busking. Music used to fill the streets. My friends used to drag me to places where people would dance to music all night long."

"Like a ball?"

"Not quite that formal," she chuckles, a sad lilt to her lips, her dark eyes appearing as sorrowful as ever. Rickon eagerly pushes her to tell him more. He asks if they had knights and tournaments, like they do here. Nadia shakes her head… "Our sports are different. No knights and jousting matches. Mostly athletic stuff. Yaknow like swimming, running, ball sports-"

"What's a ball sport?"

The girl's jaw drops so comically, Robb finds himself having to hold back a chuckle. She looks utterly dismayed, reminding him of the time Arya hid Sansa's dresses in the stables - they'd become so muddied and reeked of pungent horse manure. He's thankful that this girl doesn't resort to a screaming fit as his sister had. Instead she tells Rickon she'll just have to show him some day… "if I ever get outta here, that is." Robb frowns at the statement, a flicker of guilt bubbling within him briefly before he quickly stamps down on it. No, he cannot forget those haunting words she spoke of Bran that first night. Nor the fact that she may be insane, what with that ridiculous tale of hers.

Rickon's voice breaks through the short silence. "Does that mean you'll play with me?"

"Yeah, of course." These simple words put so much spirit into Rickon; the young Lord of Winterfell feels heartened by his prisoner's kind words to his brother; the broad grin on the child's face is one he's missed much. And he's ashamed to say that he's contributed to the frown Rickon seems to wear more and more often.

Cheerfully, Rickon replies, "I can show you where I play with Bran." All of a sudden a sombre mood takes hold of the six year old. Robb's heart aches for him. Without Bran, the child is lost.

It's not unlike how Robb feels towards Jon's absence.

The girl's figure moves, catching Robb's eye from where he'd been glaring at the stone walls, not for the first time cursing the gods for tearing his family apart. She faces Rickon more openly now - unknowingly allowing Robb also a better look at her.

Her eyes focus steadily on his brother. He thinks he sees something of concern - and perhaps guilt - flash briefly before her features mould into a determined expression. "Hey," she catches Rickon's attention with all the authority of a chastising mother. "It doesn't seem like it now, but Bran's gonna be fine. I know it."

"My father said it's not noble to make promises you can't keep."

"Your father's a wise man. But this ain't a promise, kid. It's a fact. I _know_ your brother will be fine."

Robb's eyes narrow, with both suspicion and curiosity. Rickon too seems sceptical, tilting his head curiously at her. "How do you know that?" The boy chirrups after a few moments of scrutinising her.

She smirks. But it doesn't reach her eyes. No, instead Robb finds a pitying look. Grief. Guilt. Discomfort. "Aw, hon...You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Robb chooses this moment to step out from the shadows. Her eyes flicker to him immediately, curiosity, apprehension and maybe even a little fear flashing behind those dark orbs of hers. He ignores her, schooling an impassive expression. Directing his entire attention to Rickon, he speaks his brother's name. Like a whip, Rickon turns at his brother's voice. After the momentary shock passes, the boy has the audacity to look indignant, perhaps even a little irritated at Robb's presence. "What?" He demands, just so.

Raising a brow, Robb steels his expression as he knows his father has done many times before. "Don't test me Rickon. We've been looking for you for hours. Do you know how worried you had me? If something happened to you-" he cuts himself off, quickly but surely losing his ability to cage his previous concerns. Inhaling deeply, he sets his youngest sibling a stern look. "Bed. Now."

Rickon's bottom lip trembles, a tantrum threatening to bubble forth but with yet another hard look from Robb, the six year old swallows it down. Muttering a soft "Goodnight," to the prisoner, who returns it with a weak smile and nod, the boy shuffles past Robb grumbling beneath his breath. Robb stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Tomorrow we'll practice your sword skills. Just you and I."

Tully blue eyes flash up to meet his. Robb hates that Rickon seems to be searching him for fallacy, hates that he's caused such childish distrust in the boy. And perhaps Rickon sees this, for a broad grin stretches across his pale features, his blue eyes twinkling with enthusiasm in the low firelight. "Really?"

"Upon my honour," Robb promises, crossing his fist over his heart. Small arms wind around his legs tightly, a chirpy "thank you," muffled against his torso. Robb pats Rickon's shoulders, unable to help the smile tugging at his lips. "Alright. To bed with you now." He ruffles Rickon's auburn curls fondly, much to the lad's chagrin. Yet with a much happier "goodnight," the boy skips off, Shaggydog at his heels.

Robb stares after him a moment, glad he won't have to go to bed with a heart heavy with guilt. But then he remembers where he stands. His blue gaze falls back on the girl's figure, huddled in her small cell. His eyes sweep over her a moment, a part of him wanting to just ignore her and walk away. But there's something that roots him to the ground where he stands.

"Is it true?" She's genuinely shocked that he's spoken to her. Her dark eyes are unable to hide that. For a few seconds, he watches those full lips of hers parted slightly, gaping up at him with this stupid glazed look in her eye; as if someone has just slapped her out of a daydream.

She quickly composes herself. "What?"

Releasing a very patient breath, Robb repeats slowly, "Is it true? What you said to my brother?"

Her brows furrow, head subconsciously cocking to the left. The gesture is hauntingly similar to the look Grey Wind gives him when Robb tends to prattle on to the direwolf about his woes (or the one time Robb threw a stick and ordered him to fetch. The pup merely barked at him as if to say "You threw it. So you fetch it yourself.") It's a look that under any other occasion, with anyone else, Robb may actually laugh.

"Yes." A soft whisper of a confirmation. And for some reason he still feels unsettled by it.

"Bran will live?" He clarifies, unknowingly stepping closer, allowing her to get a better look of him in her pathetic candlelight. Again she says yes.

"How?"

She blinks. "What do you mean how?"

"How do you know? How can you be sure? You have not yet even seen him."

Her tongue darts forth, wetting her lips before she presumes to chew the bottom one nervously. Dropping her gaze from his to her tawy hands folded in her lap, the girl mutters something.

"Speak up," he commands firmly.

She sighs. Irritably, he notes. "I said you won't like the answer."

"What? That you're from some other world where everything here is just a story," he practically spits it out, like venom in his tongue, mocking her subtly. He'd not thought till now that a cheek as tanned as hers could blush, and yet even in the dim atmosphere can he make out the rush of blood to her cheeks. Swallowing her bashfulness, she forces herself to meet his gaze with some ire. "It's the truth," she says vehemently.

"Spare me your lie-"

"It's not a lie!" Her mouth and eyes snap shut. Inhaling and exhaling deeply, the girl slowly opens her eyes again moments later. "It's not a lie," she whispers, voice hoarse. "I know you think I'm lying, or that I'm crazy. But I'm tryna tell you the truth. I don't belong in this world. I dunno-" she sighs, shoulders dropping dramatically, as her gaze flickers away from him, the makings of a headache etched across her brown skin. "I just dunno…"

Involuntarily, he takes a step forward. Every rational thought us telling him to forget her, but then there's this small voice - one that sounds suspiciously like Maester Luwin - telling him to not rule out her sanity just yet. _'She believes there is truth to her words. And as irrational as it appears, I sense she is far from insane,'_ Had been the old scholar's words to him the previous night.

"The Convergence." She doesn't answer, but meets his gaze nonetheless, expressionless save for a flicker of recognition. Slowly, Robb continues, "What do you know of it?"

Her brows furrow. "Not much," she answers with a shrug of her shoulders. "It's supposed to be a myth. The worlds or realms - whatever the hell you wanna call it - they align. And when they do, it creates, like, metaphysical doorways. Through space."

Robb mulls over her words, unaware of the look she gives him - one of suspicion and intrigue, not unlike the way he'd looked at her before. "What do you know about it?" her voice breaks through his thoughts. He briefly glances at her, his lips parted, half a mind to explain to her his Maester's ridiculous theories, of how the old man so hellishly scours through the most ancient of texts over a story long-forgotten by most men. But he knows, that it would mean validating her story to some degree. Instead, the young Lord snaps his mouth shut, throwing her one more heady glare before turning on his heel. He ignores the look of utter disappointment, of pain, of resentment that flickered behind her dark iris' the fraction of a second that their gazes had locked.

' _It's just a story,'_ he tells himself. _'A story she's deluded herself with.'_


	4. Chlamydomonas nivalis

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

 **NADIA**

The days have flown by all too quickly, and before she knows it, she's spent her first week in Winterfell. A week away from home. A week trapped in this Hellhole.

A shiver runs down her spine. A wisp of mist leaves her parted lips as she exhales. It'll be a cold night. Again. There's an awful lot of those here.

Maester Luwin had been kind enough to bring her some blankets. But even they could not keep out the biting frosty air. Not when her own clothes - safely returned to her by the old gentleman - consisted of nothing but a thin cami and high waist leggings.

There's not a single doubt in her mind that she'll catch hypothermia, if she hasn't so already.

Her body aches. The girl's never been very active, but she's not used to such physical restraint.

There's not much to do in such a small space. She's caught herself simply pacing for hours, lost in her thoughts, wading through her memories for even the slightest inclination as to what event brought her here. All she comes back with is that same date: June 18th.

She'd finished the book Maester Luwin had given her and he'd granted her another. Though it seemed a little too Austen for her liking. Some story about social dichotomies influencing courting couples in some rich sound neighbourhood in Volantis. Typical Austen stuff.

Just when she thought she'd go off her head from boredom, the little munchkin shows up. Rickon had been taken by her… oddity? That seems the most appropriate word. Like she's some shiny new toy that he's taken with. He'd sneak every day since their first meeting, even just for a couple of minutes to say - and bring her a treat (only the pigeon pie she refused to eat). He'd tell her about his day, his latest ventures through the castle. Shaggydog would be there by his feet, happily wagging his tail and barking every so often as if to give his input. Nadia has to admit, his childish tales were truly interesting. Especially the one of how he scared the milkmaid. It's almost bittersweet, his innocence. She envies it. Not for the first time, she wishes she could go back to that age and stay like that. When studies and career and money and parents and relationships - rather lack thereof - weren't a problem. When things were simple. Perhaps somewhere along the way she wished too hard. Gone now is all of that, save for the lack of relationship.

Mood suddenly dampened, she turns into her pillow i.e. a small, somewhat soggy, pile of hay. Saying her nightly prayers, she pleads particularly for untroubled sleep. But when has fate ever been good to her?

Something soft brushes her face. She ignores it, curling deeper into herself. A few second pass and then again. There it is. That light, feather-soft touch. And again. Flickering her eyes open, white blurs obscure her vision so slightly. They rest upon her eyelashes. Blinking furiously, they disperse, floating seamlessly away.

It's then she realises she's not longer in her bleak little cell.

She lies in a field blanketed by snow. Snowflakes continue to fall from a grey sky. For miles around there is nothing but snow. Hugging herself nervously, she realises she wears nothing but a short silver sundress and yet she can't feel the cold. The ice beneath her toes is warm.

Furrowing her brows, she slowly clambers to her feet. Her feet feel heavy. She only manages a few steps before her knees give way. Bracing herself, Nadia takes slow, deep breaths, then forces herself to her feet. She calls out for someone, anyone. She calls for her parents. Nothing. She calls for her friends, for Alyssa and Stefan especially. Still nothing. Finally, feeling all her other options exhausted, Nadia calls for Robb. But no response comes.

Nadia has no idea how long she walks. Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

Then she sees something. A gaping hole in the distance. A door. She can't see what's on the other side. Every fibre of her being tells her to close the door. Yet she can't help but feel drawn. A light wind picks up. A strange rhythm is heard. What she hears next makes her stomach drop.

Whispers.

She turns to run. But her legs are pulled out from under her. Her nails bleed as they claw at the ground but the force dragging her backwards towards the door is too strong. She screams, begs to be released but she's soon overwhelmed in a darkness that's beginning to feel familiar.

"Hello?" her voice trembles. Quaking with fear, a slight chill curls it's way up her spine.

Shadows drift around her, encircling her. Tripping over her own feet, Nadia lands in the wet snow. Something warm sticks to her fingers. A bitter taste fills her mouth. Her breathing grows ragged. The stench penetrates her senses. She wants to scream but it catches in her throat.

Blood.

Everywhere.

Kneeling in a pool of crimson, it soaks through the silk of her clothes, staining her skin.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall…" a voice whispers in the dark.

Her eyes dart everywhere, but she sees nothing. Only blood.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall…"

"Who are you!" She yells.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall," more voices join. "In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke…"

Hands fly to her head, trying to block out the chorus, but it penetrates. Blood drips from her hands, staining her hair, her face. "Stop, please, stop. Leave me alone," she begs, her voice small. Something wet trails her cheeks; she's uncertain whether it be tears or blood.

"In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall. In Fire. In Smoke. A blade will fall."

"STOP!"

Arms wrap around her. She struggles. She fights. But she's drowning. In darkness. In blood. In the voices.

"Nadia, stop!"

That voice.

"Stop, Nadia! It's okay. You're with me. You're safe!"

' _I know it.'_

"Nadia!"

Mahogany meet sapphire. For a long moment, something holds her there, afraid to look away.

"You're okay. You're safe," he consoles. She tears her gaze from his, head frantically searching their surroundings. They're in her small cell. His arms are locked around hers, as if to hold her in place. She realises it's a familiar position. She'd seen nurses restrain patients in mental wards like this when they'd lashed out. Her eyes drop to her hands, splayed against his chest.

"There was blood. Everywhere," she whispers, voice trembling with fear.

"There's no blood. It was just a nightmare."

"But it felt so real…"

"It wasn't." But she doesn't hear him. He shakes her slightly, "Hey, hey. Look at me. Nadia look at me." She does. "It wasn't real," Robb repeats, more firmly. He takes on her hands and gently squeezes. "This is real. I'm real."

She stares at their joined hands, as if trying to force his words to sink in. But all she hears is that insipid chanting echoing through her mind. Clenching her jaw, she closes her eyes.

A serpentine voice hisses, ' _The Bell Tower.'_

"The Bell Tower," she repeats airily. Eyes opening, she musters all the determination she can. "Take me to the Bell Tower.


	5. The Truth is Improbable not Impossible

**DISCLAIMER: Game of Thrones and its characters are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone, and any resemblance to individuals (real or fictional) is purely coincidence and unintentional.**

* * *

 **ROBB**

He and Theon stay back a little, watching her. "Remind me why exactly I'm following her about?" Theon hisses to the young Lord of Winterfell.

"She wanted to see the Bell Tower. I'm taking her. No one asked you to join us."

"Oh, I see. I ruined your little fun," Theon nudges him, brows raising suggestively. "If you are wondering, it's true. The crazy ones are animals in bed."

Robb slaps him over the head. "Nothing like that. Not all of us are whoremongers like you, Greyjoy," Robb hisses back. His eyes flicker to the girl, hoping she hasn't heard. She doesn't hear. She's not even there. "Nadia!" He calls into the shadows.

"There!" Theon slaps his back, pointing to his left. Squinting, he can barely make out the shadow of someone trailing the follow after. Halfway up the staircase, Theon's foot goes through wood. Cursing the Ironborn struggles a moment to wrench himself free."I could be bedding some lovely whore tonight. Instead I'm crawling through the dark for your woman."

"She's not my woman," Robb hisses, yanking his friend up from the catch. Ever since the night he'd appeared at the Castle, soaked to the bone, the woman's unconscious figure in his arms, Theon's been out to torment him. He supposes this has something to do with the fact that he hasn't had a good lay in a year.

Shoving past his friend, Robb turns the corner, stepping up onto the landing. He's about to go up the next set of steps, when he hears a scream from the room at the end of the hall. Her scream.

He runs towards her calling her name, cursing himself for leaving behind his sword. "Nadia!"

Her silhouette is foggy, but he's sure it's her standing in the little room. She doesn't seem to be harmed. "Nadia?" he slows his steps, waiting for an answer. But it never comes. Moving closer, Theon right on his heels, he sees her attention is focused out of his line of sight. "Nadia, what is it?"

Entering the room the stench hits him. It's so familiar yet so foreign all at once. A rancid, pungent scent of sulfur and iron, lingering, polluting, suffocating. Flesh. Burnt flesh.

Theon doesn't need to be told twice to retrieve more guards and the Maester.

Robb's attention stray from the corpses. His men. His father's men. Most everything burned away but the Direwolf Sigil of their House remains as clear as day on their helms and doublets.

Nadia's drawing deep breaths. Unlike him, she hasn't been able to tear her eyes from them. Moonlight casts half her face in shadows, but of that which isn't, he can see the disgust, the fear, the sadness welling in those dark eyes.

Despite his earlier perceptions of her, Robb doesn't hesitate to pull her into his arms, pushing her face into his neck so she won't have to look anymore.

They stay like that for he doesn't know how long; his arms wrapped around her shoulders and head, hers gripping the lapels of his cloak as if it's the last thing she'll ever do. She doesn't sob or faint like any girl would. She just stands still in his arms, her breathing ragged. He can practically feel her racing heartbeat.

"It's okay. It's over," he whispers in a soothing voice, much like he had earlier in her cell.

Nadia shakes her head against his shoulders. "No it's not." She pulls away from, wincing as if she's heard a loud sound. Her finger massage circles into her temples.

Before he gets the chance to ask her what she means by that, guards and Maester Luwin arrive at the scene.

Robb, stands beside the old man, waiting for his verdict. The maester rises from the ground. "Not long ago. They had to have been killed beforehand, or else we would have heard them..."

Robb nods silently. He turns to his guards. "Double the patrol. I don't want a single stone unturned until we have whoever did this in our custody." The men nod stiffly. Feeling Theon nudge him in the ribs, he shoots his friend an annoyed look. The Ironborn nods in the direction of Nadia sitting on the windowsill, arms wrapped around herself, eyes staring at nothing in particular.

Sighing, Robb walks over to her.

"I dunno," she says, as he approaches her.

"What don't you know?"

"I don't know how I found them. I don't know how I knew they were here. This… this isn't the story." she clarifies. Robb's brows furrow at her, his eyes searching her own. All he sees is genuine confusion and fear.

"Are you afraid?" Perhaps it's a stupid question, but he's unsure what else to say to her.

The look she gives him confirms this. "I lead you to two dead bodies, like some kind of bloodhound, with no clue how or why they got there. The murderer is probably still roaming around Winterfell. And you ask me if I'm afraid?"

He runs a hand through his hair, wincing at her words. "You're right. I'm sorry," he sighs, awkwardly shifting before her. "I'm just trying to understand." He is. He really is. How could she possibly have known? The girl has been locked in the cellars for days; even if she'd been an accomplice, no one would have been able to get to her to communicate the location of his father's men. And from what little he's seen if her lately, not to mention Rickon's incessant, infatuated yapping on about the maiden in the dungeon, Robb seriously doubts she has a murderous bone in her body. He's seen his father execute quite a few murderers and rapers, some who were women too, and this girl doesn't hold a candle to them.

Ignorant to his inner ramblings, Nadia glances away. Facing the window, she gazes out into the night air. "The wolves are howling," she comments.

They are too, Robb notes, a little belatedly. Another sound adds to their mournful tune. "Dogs," he said, listening. "All the dogs are barking. They've never done that before . . . " Robb moves to look, hearing Nadia's breath hitches in her throat. He feels the blood drain from his face. "Fire," he whispers. "The library tower's on fire!" he shouts to the remaining men in the room. They hasten, leaving the bodies behind to see to the new problem at hand.

"Robb," he feels Nadia grip his arm.

Pulling away, he places his hands on her shoulders. "Stay here. I'll come back as soon as the fire's out."

"But-"

"Stay!"

Outside, there were shouts of "Fire!" in the yard, screams, running footsteps, the whinny of frightened horses, and the frantic barking of the castle dogs. The howling is gone, he realises, listening to the cacophony. The direwolves have fallen silent.

Plumes of smoke rise into the black sky, suffocating whatever little fresh air there is. Robb watches the flames dwindle, slowly but surely. Trails of men, haul buckets of water, ash and soot blackening their skin. It seems hours pass them by, when it really is a matter of minutes. With each second, Robb feels himself edging closer and closer to choking on the thin air. By the end of it, his shirt is soaked with sweat, sticking to his body like a second skin. Somehow he doesn't figure this is nearly as comfortable as a certain dark-haired maiden feels in her own clothes.

The fire had torn apart the better part of the first floors of the tower, some superficial damage on the external walls too. Nothing that couldn't easily be rebuilt, though it would take weeks.

And Winter is coming.

"Think this has something to do with the two dead guards?" Theon asks. Robb doesn't answer, though his silence is confirmation enough.

"I need to see to my mother and Bran," he says a few moments later. Stiffly nodding at Theon, he takes his leave. The corridor's are oddly silent, save for the little noise that echoes up from the courtyard. It's a silence that makes him uncomfortable. And the closer he grows to Bran's chamber, the worse he feels. When there's nothing but silence, he pauses. Then he hears it. A blood-curdling, bone-chilling scream that could tears through the strongest metal. One he's horribly familiar with. And it comes from Bran's room. Suddenly it's as if he can't run fast enough. The door is only slightly ajar, but he can just make out the shadow of two figures; one above another, prepared to drive a dagger through their heart. Throwing back the door, he barely has time to think as he hauls the man back from his would-be-victim.

Robb stills, stomach churning sickeningly. The creature before him is no murderer. It is barely a man. Maybe it was but now… A gaping hole rests in the centre of his face, blood oozing from the wound. His skull, shattered inwards, protrudes from everywhere, glistening white; teeth and muscles displaced.

Dropping the corpse, Robb steps back. Ever so slowly his eyes turn to the person lying on the floor.

Resting on her elbows, gaping up at him, her face is almost entirely covered in blood.

"Robb," his mother's voice calls. Reluctantly, his blue eyes flash to the older woman; one hand grips Bran's shoulders as if they're her lifeline, the other she cradles against her chest. Eyes narrowing he sees the blood. Her blood.

"Mother? What happened?"

She gasps, tears spilling from her Tully eyes. "He came for Bran. An assassin came for Bran." Her eyes then flicker to the other person in the room. Nadia doesn't look at them. Her eyes never stray from the dead man or what's left of him. Catelyn speaks again, her voice lower, "She killed him."

* * *

The cup lies in front of her. Ten minutes it's been there. Ten minutes, still filled to the brim. Blue eyes, filled with worry, watch her with bated breath.

Shock. That's what Maester Luwin told him before leaving for the Great Hall to tend to those who'd suffered injuries from the smoke and flames. If Robb's honest with himself, he doesn't blame the girl for feeling so. It's possibly the first life she's ever taken. And the act was far from pretty.

"Drink," he tells her.

No response.

Robb looks over his shoulder at his best friend. Theon leans against the door so casually, almost as if nothing drastic happened that night. But Robb alone can see his matched concern. Meeting his gaze, the older boy shrugs unsure how else to act in this situation.

Sighing, he turns back to Nadia. Her eyes are as blank as they were when he'd found her. She'd been stuck in this detached state, unresponsive, unseeing of anyone or anything around her. Maester Luwin tried speaking to her as he washed the assassin's blood from her face, but she said nothing then. Not a word.

Sighing, Robb decides to go for a different tactic.

The metal feels cool in his hand, yet burns all the same. Valyrian steel. Laying it on the table between them, he waits for her reaction. Just when he's about to lose hope, something flickers in her eyes. Recognition.

"Do you know what this is?"

The silence is suffocating, apprehensive. But then she nods. Ever so slightly, but enough that he has to stop himself from jumping.

"It's the assassin's dagger… it's also the one you drew for Maester Luwin."

Her brows crease. Yet she nods.

"You knew about the assassin," it's not a question but a statement.

Her face wrinkles with guilt, her lips tremble. Carefully she speaks, "I didn't know when. Not until the fire started. But... I always knew."

A lump forms in Robb's throat. "How?"

The woman looks at him questioningly, and in her dark eyes he can see his own pained expression. "How?" he repeats, pressingly. Her eyes flicker. She swallows the lump in her throat. The girl appears reluctant to answer. No. Not reluctant. Exasperated. Before her lips can part, he knows what she will say. "Because in my world, everything that happens here - in this world - it's a story."

Her expression bears the smallest marks of determination, as if willing him to get it through his skull that this is the absolute truth. He looks back to Theon, hoping that the Ironborn will roll his eyes, call her bluff. But the look he's met with is neither. Contemplative. The older lad's eyes match his.

"What do you want me to say to make you believe me?" her voice cuts through, ignorant of the silent agreement the two men have come to.

Theon is the one to answer, "As strange as all this has been, I doubt there's much you can say to prove anyt-"

"Why's your mother so dead-set on us getting pretty for the King?" she cuts Theon off. They stare at her, bemused by the strange outburst. Yet Robb cannot deny the familiarity behind the phrase. Funnily enough, it almost sounds like something… "Jon said that," Nadia begins. "When the three of you were getting shaved before the King could arrive." Nodding her head in Theon's direction, she continues, "It's for the Queen, I bet. I hear she's as sleek as a mink." Then nods to Robb, "I hear the prince is a right royal prick." And back to Theon, "Think of all the southern girls he gets to stab with his right, royal prick."

Speechless, is he. The both of them are. Robb knows he must be gaping at her in bewilderment, and if not for the tears and remnants of dried blood muddying her face, let alone the weight of their situation, the girl would look positively cocky. "Not good enough?" she asks. "The last thing you said to your brother, before he left for the wall: 'Next time I see you, you'll be all in black.' He answered, 'It was always my colour.'"

Behind him, he hears Theon mutter something along the lines of "Bloody Hells," and can't help but agree.

"You think still think I'm crazy?" she asks playfully, actually trying to ease up the tension, though he can still see the weariness in her eyes, hear the poorly-veiled fear in her voice.

He fires back, "Do you?"

Her face slips. She sighs, burying her face into her hands. "Dunno."

He's not sure what he believes either. What if what Maester Luwin spoke of, had some foundation? What if she really isn't crazy? His head pounds, aching for some answers and Robb can only imagine how much worse it must be for her. And the only explanation that can be offered, is completely unfathomable. And yet... "Maester Luwin seems to have a theory. Something you mentioned to him, really."

"The Convergence," she nods. "So...what? You think I may have accessed a weak point in the transgravtiational fields?" His confused expression is expectant. Something in her expression looks almost self-berating. "You think I passed through a point or portal where our worlds aligned," she clarifies. Robb can't help but feel a little miffed that she'd had to dumb her words down to explain herself to him. But that's not the issue here; the question she's just posed him is. From the corner of his eye, he catches Theon, who also seems to be watching him, waiting for his response. They've already agreed to give her a chance, but that was before she'd opened her mouth and revealed to know their conversations. He eventually offers a stiff nod which Robb takes as an affirmation, to move forward.

"Maybe," he finally offers her. The girl's face almost entirely lights up at that. Only for it to soon fall with anguish. A few silent seconds pass, by which time she's become far too absorbed in her own thoughts. "What are you thinking?" Robb heards himself inquire.

She shakes her head, the corner of her lips curling up in an ironic grin. "Somehow hearing you say that you believe me, kinda confirms that this is real. That all this crap is actually happening, and I'm not trapped in some fucked up dream."

"That's good, isn't it?" Theon quips from his place at the door.

Nadia shrugs. "Well on the one hand. It means I'm not going crazy… entirely. On the other hand…" she goes quiet again, her expression morose.

"What is it?" Robb pushes, softly, gently. Dark eyes flash up to meet his, and Robb is overwhelmed by the vulnerability he sees in them.

"I had a family. Friends. A job. My studies. My future ahead of me," she bites her lip, "I had a life… and now it's all gone." She takes in a shaky breath. "I'm trapped in this world, probably for the rest of my days. Alone. I-I don't know how I can handle that."

Without thinking, he lays his hand over hers, squeezing gently. "We'll figure it out. I promise."

She smirks, though it lacks its usual air of sassiness. "Don't make a promise you can't keep."

"I never do."

She looks like she wants to say something else. But doesn't. Taking in this new revelation, Robb finds another question burning in the back of his mind. "Is that why you saved Bran? Was he supposed to-"

Eyes widening, she cuts him off with a firm, "No," then more calmly, "it wasn't a lie when I told Rickon that Bran would be okay. If I didn't show up, Summer would've..." her voice trails off. There's an uncertain look on her face.

"All the same, my family owe you our thanks," he says kindly, though she doesn't seem to hear. She's become despondent again, her eyes transfixed on the weapon before them.

"What now?" Theon quips, coming to join them at the table.

Nadia shakes her head. "I don't- I'm just trying to figure all this out." He and Theon exchange bemused glances with one another. Figures neither would understand what she means. Nadia appears to notice this. "I drew this," she points to this dagger, "But I've never seen this dagger before. Sure it's in the story, but the description wasn't good enough for me to imitate it. I'm not that good of an artist."

Raising a curious brow, Robb asks, "So how did you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know? You must know something." He elbows Theon for the obvious sceptical tone of his voice.

Nadia glares at him weakly. "What do you want me to tell you? I don't know, how I got here. I don't know how I knew what the dagger looked like. I don't know how or why I found those bodies in the Bell Tower. I don't know why I only ever seem to dream about death these days or why I feel like I'm drowning in a thousand voices that apparently only I can hear but can never understand!" Her voice has risen alarmingly so, shaking more and more with waves of frustration and fear. Apprehensive, Robb stays silent as her gaze drops to her full cup. Picking it up, she examines its contents quickly before downing the entire thing in one shot. Pursing her lips, she avoids their gazes. "I don't know why when I screamed at the assassin... his face shattered." She pauses, swallowing a heavy lump in her throat. Tears break the floodgates of her eyes, streaming down her sickeningly pallid olive cheeks. "All I know is a man dead because of me. I had his blood on me. I can still smell him on me."

Thick silence fills the space between the three young adults.

Then Theon says two words Robb never thought possible for him to say. "I'm sorry."

Glistening black eyes sweep up to meet his friend's. With a slight tilt of her head, she forgives him.

Nadia looks at the her empty cup then at the bottle of whiskey. "Got anything stronger?"

Theon smirks, rising from his seat. He returns not ten seconds later with two extra cups and some Dornish ale. "Now this is alcohol," he proclaims, pouring their drinks. The three of them cheer and down their shots. While Theon's busy pouring himself more ale, Robb manages to catch Nadia's attention. His eyes bleed with concern, not willing to let her little confession slide so easily. A bittersweet smile is her response. "Stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" he replies.

"Like you're torn between pitying me and throwing me in an asylum."

"What's an asylum?" he and Theon ask together.

"A place for the crazies," Nadia answers as nonchalantly as she can put forth. Drowning her whiskey makes a strong argument against such an act.

"You're not crazy," Robb immediately fires back. Nadia pauses in her drinking to look at him squarely. "Well you're not. I think we just established that." A glint in her eye, shows she's touched by his words.

From the corner of his eye, Theon's head goes back and forth between them. The young Stark has to physically restrain himself from rolling his eyes, though he knows the Ironborn won't be able to shut up tomorrow. Finally Theon settles his sight on the young woman in their company. "You think you're crazy? You know because of..." he waves his hand slightly, referencing all the issues she just revealed, the dreams and voices in her head being of particular concern.

Nadia's eyes darken, not with anger but with uncertainty. "I don't know. I feel like I'm going off my head. Ever since I woke up, I'd hear them. When I'm sleeping I hear them. It's frustrating because I don't know when or where it'll begin." She runs a hand through her thick curls. "I don't know if I'm crazy. Or a psychic-"

"A psychic?" He and the Ironborn ask, matching incredulity in their voices.

"I'm something!" she snaps. "And I constantly feel like every fibre in my body is literally telling me to-" She cuts off.

Lips parted in a small 'o' shape, her eyes narrow at nothing in particular.

"Nadia?"

She pays him no mind. He can see the wheels in her head turning. Theon nudges him. "You think she's hearing them now?"

Robb ignores him in favour of getting her attention. "Nadia."

"Scream," she breathes. "Ho-ly. Fuck."


	6. Heavy is the Head

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi everyone! So here we are, at the one week mark and I already have 24 follows! I'm honestly surprised by that, so thank you my lovely readers!

Before we move on to the latest chapter, the fifth one (and also another Robb one), I wanted to ask you all how you would feel about me putting in a title analysis at the tenth chapter mark? If any of you have read my profile, you would know that this is something I'm intrigued to do as it allows me to divulge to you some of the themes behind the chapters and what it was that inspired the chapter title. If any of you are fans of the Vampire Diaries, you would know that this is something they do on their wiki page, as well as something that Julie Plec (the executive producer) has undertaken to do for their final season, as a series of short "Inside" videos. So please let me know if you would like to know my reasoning behind some of my quirky and not so quirky chapter titles.

Now... REVIEWS:

 **francisvirus:** thank you! I'm glad you liked it, and I strive to tell a different tale.

 **foxykitsuneyouko:** I'm glad you like the story! You have a very good eye for detail :) I wonder if you are also a Teen Wolf fan, or if you just know your myths pretty well. At the moment though, what Nadia is will remain a secret. But yes I will be drawing on Lydia Martin primarily in relation to her supernatural abilities.

To everyone else, please, please review! I'd love to know what you all think, especially if you have any theories or questions about where the story and/or its characters are going.

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of it's characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. Nadia alone is mine.**

* * *

 **ROBB**

The boy's chest rises and falls slowly. Again and again. Trembling fingers rub tender circles onto a small hand. His mother's voice is low as she sings their favourite lullaby; her blue eyes - the Tully eyes - transfixed to Bran's pale face.

It has been six weeks since the hunting trip. Five weeks since he'd ridden through Winterfell's great stone gates, hoping to hear the sound of his youngest siblings running to pester them about their gatherings. But it wasn't Arya's inquisitive face nor Rickon's excited one he saw; he'd even tried to spy for Bran, hanging from the walls somewhere. Instead it was Old Nan who stood there, her old decrepit face grim with mourning. Her eyes searched for his Lord father. _Bleeding. Bruised. Broken._ Her words haunted him since then. He asked himself time and time again, _how?_ How could a boy, who's never fallen - not ever, not once since he was just out of infancy - how could he have fallen. The Maester had thought Bran would be lucky if he survived the night, so were his injuries.

The last time Robb had heard those words, he'd been but a boy, younger than even Rickon. Then it had been Jon, stricken with pox. Unbeknownst to his parents, Robb kept sigil by his half-brothers door that night. Jon's ragged breaths, his coughs, his whimpering echoed through the wooden door like stampede. It had been a long night.

This time, Jon stood sigil with him for all of three days and three nights. They heard nothing. No breath. No whimpers. No sign of life. He recalls the sight of his mother intermittently laying her head to Bran's chest, assuring herself of his faint heartbeat.

"How is he?" Robb asks, his gaze not straying from his brother's sleeping figure.

Maester Luwin responds in just as hush a tone, "He still sleeps. He may thrash a little from time to time. But he will recover. Bran will be as he always was, in no time."

"No he won't."

He hears the sad sigh from the old man. He doesn't need to look, to see the grievous nod. "No he won't."

Robb turns from the door, leaving behind his mother to her soft minstrels and mourning. She had not left the room, save to bathe. Robb would bring her meals, and when he could not the Maester would. Even so, she barely ate. She needed her husband. Robb needed his father. They needed their family.

But their family is long gone by now. Jon would soon take the Black and submit himself to a long and arduous life of defending the Realms. He'd never take a woman, never sire children; 'Tis a cruel thing, to be a bastard.

As for his father and sisters, they would be indulging in the warm, frivolous summer of King's Landing. A brood of vipers, he'd once heard Greatjon call the southerners. "All lies and secrets, not a single trustworthy soul amongst them," he'd said.

 _'A Lion's den, more like_ ,' Robb thinks to himself, walking through the empty hallways. The castle is deathly silent without the other Stark children running about. It's eerily haunting feeling that doesn't bode well with him. Not long ago, the place seemed so lively. Children playing in the streets and Rickon with them, the tradesman heartily laughing as they went about their work. He, Jon and Theon sparring in the tiltyard, Arya and Bran no doubt would have been lurking in the shadows and on the walls, respectively, watching on enviously while Sansa sat with the Septa, laying out plans for her fantasy wedding.

Now… now the people shuffle about, smiles rarely traded and usually forced. Now there is no Jon nor Arya and Sansa. There is no Eddard Stark there, to hold his weeping wife as she cries over Bran. No one to help Robb with his duties as acting Lord of Winterfell.

Everything and everyone seem as grey as the skies overhead.

' _Winter is Coming_.' The Stark words, his father's words echo through his head.

Even the common-folk begin to prepare for the short days and long nights to come. Robb himself cannot recall his last Winter, save that it was short, lasting perhaps a year or two. Sansa had been but a babe at that time, himself and Jon mere children too young to understand the dangers the turn of the season brought; they could only find pleasure in childsplay, the few times they managed to escape his parents' watchful eye.

They didn't understand the histories, the stories of Kings freezing to death in their castles, of mothers smothering their children than let them suffer the ice. But that Winter had come and gone, and Westeros and Winterfell had survived.

This Winter would be different.

Some nights' past, after a particularly tiresome day of settling accounts, Robb had poured himself wine and listened to Maester Luwin warn him of his increasing burdens to come, "It will be a long Winter," Maester Luwin had fearfully predicted, encouraging Robb to prepare his people for the long night to come. Robb had mutely nodded then, sighing into his drink. He deflated at the prospect of his growing duties. _'I am acting Lord of Winterfell, now,'_ he'd told himself.

He'd repeat it every morning he awoke, after every audience, each time he'd reject Rickon's pleas to play and each night before bed. The only times he ever truly seemed to break was whenever he'd stand by Bran's door and look upon his little brother. _'I am no lord,'_ he'd think bitterly, in those moments. _'I'm a boy who can't even help his brother. How can I help these people?'_

"By not breaking," Theon had supplied. His friend was his father's ward for years, travelled with the man around the North, watched him with the people, highborn and common-folk alike. The Ironborn spoke of how when things got particularly difficult, Lord Eddard Stark refused to show weakness, refused to break... "And the people take comfort in that. Even if he can't do anything to help them, they know he cares."

He needs to live up to the shadow his father's cast. Leaning forward in his seat, Robb's chin comes to rest on his hands, blue eyes unwavering from the old man speaking before him,"...And with the Winter coming, we don't know how we can care for the children."

He considers this a moment. Many of the builders are away at Deepwood Motte, assisting in repairs caused by a terrific coastal storm, and are not to be expected back for another week at best. Although... "I can lend to you Alvyn and Waylan, carpenter's apprentices but talented ones, from what their Master's spoken. I'll have them ride out first thing in morning and send word to my builders to see to the orphanage, upon their return from Deepwood Motte. Worry not of expense."

The man's eyes seemed to bulge from his head, a toothy smile slowly sweeping over his features. The library tower could do a little longer in its state. Bowing fervently, he thanks Robb many, many times, to the point of nearly grovelling at the Stark heir's feet.

His gratuitous comments echo down the hallway, long after the man disappears from the Great Hall. Shaking his head, slightly amused and slightly humbled.

With no more audiences today, he gestures to the guards to close the doors. A silence sweeps through the Great Hall, a rare silence that he is grateful for. Robb slumps in his seat, head hitting the back of his chair not that it bothers him much. His eyes slip close and he inhales the sweet, frosty air of the room, reveling in the short peace he has now.

Something soft and wet nudges at his hand. Smiling, he let's his hand slide across the direwolf's head, his fingers streaking through silky tendrils of fur. The small beast releases an almost inaudible whimper, clearly enjoying his master scratching under his chin.

"Shouldn't you be resting?" a voice pipes up from his left. "Shouldn't you be whoring?" Robb retorts. From the corner of his eye, he catches the smirk of his friend. Theon claps him in the back as he draws to Robb's side, taking the seat beside him.

"Where do you think I was all day? Ros has been missing me. You remember Ros, don't you? Sprightly little thing," he waggles his brows. Robb shakes his head. Theon's trying to get him to laugh. He'd been trying all week. He was getting there. Slowly.

"I was just thinking how so much has changed in so little time," he says finally turning to his friend.

Theon nods. "You really should be resting, you know."

Robb's eyes narrow. "Did Maester Luwin send you to coddle me?" He takes the Ironborn's silence as a confirmation. "I'm fine. Nothing ails me, Theon."

"You've been working yourself from before dawn to past dusk, everyday. I've been your father's ward long enough to know you're working yourself too hard." Pinching the bridge of his nose, Robb sighs. Beside him Theon twiddles his thumbs, waiting expectantly for some sort of answer but Robb gives him none. So instead, he changes tactic, asking something Robb had not quite expected, "Maester Luwin said anything about the girl?"

Nadia. Buried up till his ears in his duties, he'd forgotten all about her. A little guilt sweeps over him at that. "Nothing." Shortly after their little chat, she'd passed out from exhaustion. Now two days later, Robb can admit a little concern for the girl's health.

Theon nods silently. They sit in silence a little while longer. Robb can feel his friend's eyes boring into the side of his face, studying him. No doubt he was making note of the dark rings beneath his eyes. "Go rest. If anything happens, I'll come get you."

Despite his protests, Robb retires to his chambers early, albeit reluctantly. It's only as he's turning to corner into his hallway that his lethargy finally catches up to him; every sore muscle, every hour lost of sleep, every burden weighing him down. He finds his body yearning for his soft bed. Yet hand coming to rest on his door handle, he stills a moment before turning to face another door.

Before he can think, he closes the distance and draws it open, wincing at the bellowing creak of wood against stone. The noise doesn't seem to stir the room's occupant from her sleep. She scrunches her button nose then smiling slightly - just a slight upward tilt of her lips - nuzzles her head against the pillow. A soft noise, like a cat purring, slips from her lips the same moment her shoulders arch and relax. Robb has to admit it's a bit of an amusing sight.

Somehow, in the night, despite the injuries to her chest - to which he frowns guiltily at - the mystery girl had managed to maneuver herself to lie prone on her front, hands firmly wrapped around her pillow as if it were her lifeline.

He recalls how limp she was the night he'd found her, when he'd dragged her from the lake. He'd thought her dead. She had no breath. No heartbeat. Maester Luwin had informed Robb that he'd bruised several of her ribs, trying force the water from her lungs.

Colour has returned to her olive skin since. Her cheeks now carry a slight flush, perhaps due to all those layers of fur. Yet she still shivers. Frowning to himself, Robb unfolds the fur draped across his shoulders and carefully lays it on her.

Face now closer to hers, his blue eyes brush over her unconscious features. She would never compare to the likes of Cersei Lannister nor any noble woman he'd met in all his years. Though he supposed, one couldn't expect to look the picture of perfection after what she's been through.

Short, raven curls obscure his view a little. Hesitantly, he brushes the dark locks back, a little surprised by how soft her hair is given its unruly appearance.

She's a little pretty, he'd admit. She has the makings of a Dornish girl. For a brief moment he wonders about her culture, seeing as she belongs to another world entirely. He frowns at this. It's still odd to think such a thing to be true. Yet if what Maester Luwin says about the Convergence can be believed, not to mention the _gifts_ the girl possesses, surely even the impossible must be true? It would certainly explain her speech and mannerism, or at least what little he's seen.

Suddenly she shifts under the covers. Robb has to hold his breath. The girl settles soon enough, a single shoulder surfacing from beneath the furs. A bare shoulder. Heat creeps up the young wolf's neck, realising how compromising this may look if she were to arouse that very moment.

 _'Arouse.'_ He could practically hear Theon snickering crudely.

Resigning himself with the knowledge that the maiden seems to be recovering well enough, he quickly and quietly slips out from the room.

It doesn't even feel five minutes since he put his head down, that he's being awoken. Some days he wishes he could just stick an arrow in that bloody rooster. When he was a boy, he and Jon would chase after the birds with their wooden swords. Ginevra Frell would be on their tails with a wooden spoon, spouting curses that could make a pirate blush. The one time they 'borrowed' their father's sword, the bloated old hag managed to catch them. She spanked them till they lost feeling in their arses and they never went near her chickens again. Eddard Stark had fixed them with his solemn glare but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes. He bent down, lifted the weight of Ice from both their hands and whispered low so his wife wouldn't hear, "Go for the pigs. They're much more fun."

Unfortunately for Robb, he's not awoken by that bloody cockbird. Nor by the first light of dawn streaming into his room.

But by a scream that tears through him like a shard of glass. It's the kind of sound that puts ice in your veins. Desperate, terrified...human. Familiar. Throwing back the covers, Robb's hand reaches for his sword as he stumbles out of his chambers. He hears the shouts of his men and finds them both standing just inside her door. They look less than certain of themselves, shooting him helpless looks when they see him.

"We just found her like that…" they say. His questioning blue eyes follow. The answer to his question is curled up in the far corner, trembling as she stares into space. Fear is written as clear as day across her face.

"Leave us." He doesn't turn to see them off. Nor does he make any move towards her.

It's some silent moments before she whispers, "Am I off my rocker?"

A bemused expression pulls at his lips. "...Pardon?"

She smiles a little, then, at his ignorance. "Am I losing my mind?" she clarifies.

"...No."

"Are you lying to me?"

"...no."

The weakest of smiles forces its way onto her face. Her gaze stays fixed on the ground, as she speaks, "You're a terrible liar, Robb Stark." He chuckles. It's small, but it's enough to lift some of the tension from his shoulders. He steps forward towards her slowly. "I always thought myself a good liar," he replies.

She hums. "Maybe you're not as great as you think you are," she quips but her attention seems elsewhere. He moves till he's right in front of her, bending down to her level. When she doesn't meet his eyes, he places a finger beneath her chin. Slowly he tilts her head upwards. The look he's giving her is serious and full of concern. "Are you alright."

Her lips quiver. She bites on them to stop, but can't help the whimper that slips through. "I was trying to get out." Her eyes flicker down. His follow, confused at first then angry that he hadn't noticed her bleeding knuckles.

"Come with me," he slowly helps her up, one arm around his waist. He leads her through the citadel, towards Maester Luwin's chambers, ignoring the curious stares of the night guards. The Maester himself is not present, either attending to Bran or pouring over his books in the library. "Sit here," he gently nudges her towards the bench, before turning on her to pillage through the cupboards for supplies. He can feel her eyes follow him around the room.

"I was drowning." He pauses in his movements, waiting for her to go on. "Water kept flooding in and it wouldn't stop. The windows. The doors. They wouldn't open. So I-I tried to break the window." He turns to see her studying her knuckles. Finding what he needs, he moves to her side. Taking her hand slowly, he lowers it into the alcohol. "This may hurt," he warns.

"I know."

He watches her as he washes the dirt from her bleeding hands. She smirks painfully, each time he apologies after hearing her hiss. He speaks nothing of the tears trailing down her cheeks. Taking the bandages, he proceeds to wrap the wound.

"You're doing it wrong."

"What?"

"You're doing it wrong," she repeats. He scoffs, "Forgive me, my lady but I've watched the Maester do this many times for my father's men." He expects her to humble herself, to back down. She raises her chin determinedly.

"Okay, one. I'm no lady. Two. I'm the student nurse here, and I've done this dressing several times on patients, without complaint. I reckon my practice beats your observation." Her gaze is steely despite the pain she is failing to hide. Against his better judgement he relents. She softly mutters to him instructions. He fumbles a little, causing her more ache but she doesn't complain… much.

When he's done she examines his handy work. "You'll make a good a nurse someday."

"I think I'll settle for being a lord instead."

"Of course."

Silence ensues between the adolescents. Nadia looks away from him to observe their surroundings. Robb takes this time to observe the strange girl. Her curly hair is as unruly as before, just passing her chin, barely. He notices her clothes better now too - a kindness on Maester Luwin's part, having them washed and returned to her while she'd still been his prisoner. Resembling a man's attire, with a feminine design, he notices the way the clothes hug her body; could easily have passed for a second skin. Black pants cut off above her ankles; the navy shirt, modest only in that it manages to cover a fair amount of the girl's torso, exposing a fair amount of her shoulders and arms, a low V dipping into her chest.

Blushing, Robb forces his eyes to her face, hoping she hasn't caught him leering. Luckily for him, she hasn't, her eyes focused on nothing really.

"I need you to show me the place you found me."

Robb's icy blue eyes bore into the side of her face. "Why?"

She sighs. "I get the feeling you still don't believe me entirely," Robb has the decency to look ashamed at this, "but...I don't-I don't belong here. I dunno why I'm here or how I even got here in the first place. Part of me wishes this all really is dream but I'm starting to realise it's not. And if that's the case..." she closes her eyes, gnawing her lips. Her fingers clench the table so hard, he fears she'll dent it. "Fuck. Please don't look at me like that," she begs, eyes still firmly shut.

"Like what?" he asks confused.

"Like I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy."

"You don't even know if you believe me or not," she argues. "It's okay. I wouldn't believe me either," she smiles gently. A short silence consumes them, then… "There's something important I've forgotten…" she pauses, inhaling deeply. Obsidian eyes turn on him. There's pleading in them. " I need you to help me remember."

* * *

The early morning air kisses his skin a thousand times over. But it's not the cold that bothers him; It's the girl seated behind him. When she looked at him, with those dark eyes - so dark they shone like dragon glass but lacking in the same cold, sharpness of his father's blade - Robb felt he could not deny her request.

Even when he offers to turn them round, feeling her body quake in these cool temperatures, she insists she's fine. "The cold doesn't bother me anyway" she'd told him when they'd gone just past the gates of Wintertown. But this woman's determined, he'll give her that. Either that or stupidly stubborn. Robb supposes he'll have to wait to find out which one it is. He's leaning towards the latter, feeling her shiver against his back no matter how hard she tries to keep her body distanced from his, in their shared saddle. He can't blame her. It is rather awkward. But he's no stranger to having girls ride with him… though now that he thinks about it, it has been some time since he's had the pleasure of beautiful girl pressed against back, hearing her laughter and squeals in his ear as he rides them about the plains surrounding Winterfell.

Suddenly a ditch appears out of nowhere. His stallion leaps over unhindered, just as he'd predicted. However the sudden motion has caused the dark-haired girl to involuntarily slide forward in their saddle. Her body presses against his back, intimately, so that he would not have a hard time drawing her every curve. This thought alone draws his lips into a grimace. ' _I'm far too tired to be out here… I'm starting to think like Theon.'_

He hastens the horse forward. The girl's grip on his waist is quickly becoming undone, not a good sign unless she wishes to take a bad fall. Carefully releasing the reins with one hand, he draws his fingers over hers, combing them apart gently; tugging lightly, she let's him drag her arms forward, around his midsection, steadying her hold onto him.

He'd taken her off-guard by that action; the hitch in her breath, the moment his fingers touched hers, tells him that. Little does he realise that by the end of the night, she'd be taking him by many a surprise.

Arriving at the place he'd found her, only nights ago, Robb is quick to unsaddle. Offering his hand to help her down, he realises she's not yet realised where they are, so lost in her thoughts, she is. The curiosity in him would like to know what she's thinking. This strange girl who claims to come from another world, entirely… what thought could possibly be possessing her entire attention at this very moment?

The more rational side of Robb, refrains him from inquiring. "We're here, my lady," announces Robb, stealing her away from the mysterious workings of her mind. She seems just as surprised to see him standing below her. Even more so to see him offering to assist her down. ' _Is she not used to chivalry?'_ he thinks to himself, watching her contemplate whether his hand will bite her or not.

She decides _or not_ , taking Robb's hand, extremely hesitantly. Weakly, she smirks down at him, "I'm no Lady."

Pulling her down, setting her on her feet, Robb replies, "Forgive me. My Maester informs you that you are rather educated. It is rather uncommon for women not of noble birth to be so." The pale sunlight makes visible the light blush that creeps across her tawny skin. He's forgotten himself, he realises, pulling his hands away from her waist but not yet stepping back.

Clearing her throat, Nadia pulls away from him slowly. "Is that your way of calling me weird?" she challenges.

"Wha- No. Of course not, I was simply-"

"Relax. Weird is a compliment for me." His brows furrow at her words. Once again, he's confused by her. ' _No doubt it won't be the last time.'_ Not giving him a chance to say another word, the girl moves away from him, to see where he's brought her: a small lake.

"So this is it."


	7. Holding on and Letting go

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is the updated rewritten version of this chapter: Minor changes e.g. Nadia's friend Stefan is now called Matt; and she doesn't say where she retrieved her luggage from before "Crossing the veil" so to speak.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

NADIA

"This is it," he echoes following up her side. "I found you washed up on the banks. I thought you were..." Robb's voice drops off before he can finish. Nadia nods subtly, understanding what he means to say and appreciating him for not saying it.

"What is this place?" she asks. A part of her wonders why, seeing as if that facet of information would really be of no import. And yet she has the inkling of a notion that if this be her doorway, there must be some phantasmal reason behind it.

"The Bifrost."

Nadia freezes at that. "What?"

Robb repeats himself, taken aback by her outburst. She returns her gaze to the lake. 'No way is this a coincidence.'

"Why is it called that?" she asks.

Again he looks ready to question her, but at the last moment bites his tongue. Instead answering, "The way the sunrise catches the water, its surface reflects a rainbow. The name is of the Old Tongue of the First Men. One of the few words to have not been lost by time." Nadia remains quiet, and so Robb takes the chance to ask her what the term means to her.

"The Convergence was a myth of Norse - an archaic culture in my world. They believed the bifrost was a bridge between the Realms, guarded by their gods."

"... a bridge…" he breathes. "Or a doorway?" he adds, looking at her. For the first time, since the other night, she thinks he might believe her. It gives her hope. But at the same time she can't ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach.

Her dark eyes turn towards the lake. The water is still. It's surface mirrors the fantastical hues of orange and pinks of the rising sun in the east and the fading black in the west.

Mesmerising.

Captivating.

Magical.

A soft breeze washes over them. Nadia's eyes drift close, taking in the sweet pine scent of the woods surrounding them. For a moment the world feels still.

"Do you hear that?" The girl's voice breaks through the silence.

"Hear what?" Next to Nadia, Robb quickly surveys their surroundings, and confirms they are alone. But when he looks at her again, she doesn't meet his gaze. Her eyes are narrowed with focus, though there's a steely glaze to them; her lips are parted a little, her attention so fully enraptured by something that draws it to the far out to the very centre of the waters before them both. "Nadia?" He tries to call her attention. She doesn't respond. She's as still as a statue.

Then she moves. Her legs take her not a few feet, when Robb grasps at her arm. "Trust me," she whispers, voice soft, sweet, light with an almost musical quality - so unlike the deeper, raspy tones he's heard from her so far; but there's also an edge of something, as if disembodied. It is with great difficulty that, she senses, that his fingers uncurl from her arm. She waits until he's stepped away, before continuing forward.

Toward the water.

Toward whatever she's forgotten.

One step at a time, she wades into the water. Each second her breath goes harsher with anticipation. Nadia feels her body numb with each passing moment, every second more of her disappearing beneath the lake's blue depths. When she's up to her neck, she pauses. Eyes flutter close. She strains, but there's nothing there. No sound. No whispers.

Then she sinks.

Down below, the sun shimmers upon the surface, scattering like a thousand lights. Small fish swim in schools, their scales glinting exuberant colours that Nadia never imagined to see in a place such as Winterfell. And amidst this, is something that truly doesn't belong in Winterfell.

The black Jeep Wrangler is perched amongst the rocks. The rear window is a gaping hole, the entire trunk crushed. Drawing nearer, she swims to pull herself inside the shotgun's door.

Remember that scene in Inception, where Joseph Gordon Levitt fights off two men whilst the room is spinning because of events in an external dream. Well, Nadia imagines this must be what it feels like. To be caught in a dream, and view the world from a perspective that it shouldn't be… it makes her head spin.

Her suitcase floats in the front seat; pulling it past her body, ignoring the protesting of her chest at the motion, Nadia pushes it out of the car. She doesn't stop to watch it break the water surface. There are few other items in the sedan. A street directory. Her sunglasses and wallet she finds in the glovebox, and an empty pizza box in the backseat. Her phone remains fixed to its holder and suddenly she wishes she'd left it in her suitcase, then it wouldn't have succumbed to its watery grave.

She still doesn't understand how she got here. 'June 18th,' her brain reminds her. 'What was I doing June 18th. It's important, she knows this. She's certain of it. There was something about that day. Something different. Something explains how she got here. Her conversation with Maester Luwin comes to mind. As ridiculous as it sounds… could the old myths be true? Why then her? She's not of Norse or Viking descent in anyway. 'Maybe, I'm like Jane Foster. I found it by accident.' Even then, there's something not quite right about it all. Like there's more to the story.

But she supposes it will have to wait. She's seen enough and her body craves to inspire fresh air once again. Just as Nadia's about to pull out of the car, she notices her keys in the ignition, though they're turned off. Her lungs are screaming at her for air but somehow the idea of quitting ahead of herself, right now, isn't an option. Her fingers wrap around the keys. Releasing a few small bubbles, she turns them.

What follows is a muted scream.

Water splutters from her mouth. She gasps, heaving in deep breaths of air. For minutes she lies there, hunched over, body aching, ribs enraged, her forehead pressed lightly against the cold earth. Somewhere at the back of her mind, she registers the large hand drawing drawing soothing circles onto her back.

Somehow she finds her voice. "How did you…"

"I suppose my observation counts for something." And despite herself, she laughs at the joke. Rolling over, she tries to sit up. His hand on her back supports her but she still finds herself falling against him. She's about to apologise, when he shifts to accommodate her weight. The two end up sitting against one another staring out over the lake.

"What was that?"

"Oh good. I wasn't imagining it," Nadia sighs, relieved. "And here I thought I was, like, losing my fucking mind... 'scuse the language." Judging by the bemused look on Robb's face, she takes it he doesn't find the comment as amusing as she. Clearing her throat, she explains slowly, "It's a car... My car… Um, anyway, in my world, they're the most popular mode of road transport."

"I'm not talking about that... contraption I pulled you from," Robb says, rather heatedly. His blue eyes bore into her, burning with curiosity. But even more than that - disbelief. Shock. Maybe even a little fear. "When I reached out to you… I saw something. A bridge."

"You mean the bifrost?" Nadia questions scrutinisingly.

"No. I saw you. In your contr-car," he corrects himself, with a shake of his sodden head, "You were… laughing, talking to someone, I think." His eyes lose focus a moment, but all Nadia can do is stare wordlessly, eyes widened with surprise at the man before her. "Matt!" He snaps his fingers, blue eyes finding hers again. "I didn't see him, but that's what you called him."

Nadia shakes her head a little. "How did you see that?" she whispers, bewildered beyond comfort.

"I don't know," he breathes. The frown line between his eyes deepens. "What was that, I saw?"

"A memory." She swallows a lump in her throat, practically choking out the next words, "My last memory, before…" her gaze grows distant, blurred by the tears that well in them. She's taken aback by this sudden cascade of emotions bubbling within her, a tumultuous storm of feelings and thoughts she can't quite process at the moment. The memory - the very one she'd suffered aneurism-like migraines for, the very one she'd torn her mind apart for and quite almost led herself to believe she'd lost her sanity, for - that very same memory dictates her last moments on Earth. "Matt was helping me pick up the last of my belongings from..." she shudders not wanting to go down that road at this very moment with Robb. Besides her, she feels him turning in towards her a little more to listen. Taking a deep breath, she continues to the important part… "Anyway we were heading back to my place for dinner with my roommates." A soft smile draws at her lips, "We were just chatting. Laughing. Singing along to the radio, ridiculously outta tune. He was tryna to make me feel better." Nadia doesn't see Robb studying her, watching the way her face falls becoming for solemn.

"There was a storm," Robb pushes, no doubt drawing from whatever brief glimpse he'd got of her mind. Nadia nods, affirmatively. "There was a big storm," she reiterates. "Like the idiot I am, I thought I could outdrive it. But then we got to the bridge." Her voice begins to quiver a little, and she starts to chew on her lip anxiously. "The storm felled a tree right in front me. I-I swerved. Hit the rail. Left us hanging out over the edge. I remember screaming. There was a lot of screaming a-and crying." Nadia barely notices the hand squeezing hers, Robb's thumb kneading circles into the back of her palm. "We couldn't just sit and wait for emergency services to come and rescue us, the car was slipping fast. Our only option was to try and climb up the sides of the car. Which believe me, is some pretty scary shit when you're looking at a forty foot drop into a ravine. We were both nearly to the bridge when the car started falling. I-" by now her breaths have grown short, sharp, shallow, dangerously bordering on hyperventilation. Images flooded her mind as if the memory is unfolding itself right before her eyes, as if she's there all over again. "We jumped. Matt managed to get a hold on a piece of railing as well as catch me with his other hand. Yaknow for a moment we thought we were outta the clear. But then the railing started to give. We were too heavy." She chuckles sadly at the next bit. "The idiot was telling me to climb up him. To save myself. Now I'm strong but I don't have that kind of upper body strength. But he did."

From the corner of her eye, Nadia catches Robb's expression. It's dark, sombre and unabashedly full of pity; his deep blue eyes sadly anticipate the last moments of her life on Earth. Inhaling deeply, she continues her narration, "I told him to lemme go. He growled. Actually growled. Who woulda thought," she half whispers to herself that last bit, shaking her head sort of fondly. "Told me he'd rather die than let than happen. Than lose his best friend."

"Nadia…" she realises she's been crying when a rough though gentle hand reaches out to brush the tears staining her cheeks. "What happened?"

Brown meet blue. She's overwhelmed by the vulnerability she sees in her reflection in those baby blues. "I let go," she whispers, small smile ever so bittersweet. Clearing her throat, her voice begins to croak, "I didn't want to. I wanted to hold on to life. To Matt. Just for a few seconds longer. But I couldn't let him die. I couldn't be that selfish. I wanted to but I…" her eyes fall shut. Nadia takes a deep breath. She slowly opens her eyes again, but this time avoiding Robb's gaze. "Dunno how long I fell. Just seemed like an eternity of staring up at his face, watching him grow further away, hearing him shout my name. And then... there was this bright light, then came the drowning part and then nothing..."

The memory makes her want to cringe. She hates that feeling of fighting against the current, all the while feeling her body give up on her. She threw in the towel without ever giving herself a chance. Nadia realises now, it's a miracle - albeit a twisted one - that her body washed up for Robb to find her.

From the corner of her eye, she makes note of the stoic expression on his face, as if he's debating something with himself. It must be shocking, at the very least. If it had just been her word, Robb would have found it easy enough to ignore. But having seen her car, knowing nothing like it could possibly exist in this world - his world… and even more importantly, getting a backstage pass into her mind, however brief it may have been - it's indescribable what he must feel. Nadia can't help but feel some semblance of pity for him.

"You think still think I'm crazy?" she teases.

He looks at her with a serious expression. "No." She's not quite sure what's running through his head, but she's sure that whatever it is, there is no doubt left regarding her. Seeing is believing. And, somehow, Robb saw much more than either of them are comfortable with.

They stay the way they are. Not leaving. Only watching the sunrise, over the mountains in the distance. It casts it's light over the ground, chasing shadows away from the land. It's a beautiful sight, really. Peaceful. Something tells Nadia that this isn't something that's gonna last very long. Not for her. Not for anyone here. Not in this story.

Her clothes cling to her like a second skin - more than usual, that is - soaking her to the bone in sweet fresh waters of the lake. Just sitting here in this damnable chill, she can feel her hair drying out, water droplets perhaps freezing amongst the curls.

Robb's voice breaks through her reverie, "I forgot. This surfaced not long before I came in after you." Getting up, he walks a little away towards the water and begins to drag back something large and red. Her eyes widen remembering it.

"My suitcase," she gasps, moving to kneel before it. She barely notices Robb drop into a similar position by her side. Her fingers are quick to work at the several zips. "Come on, come on, come on," she begs silently, opening it. All her things are present. And dry. "Oh thank God," she breathes.

"Is this all your luggage?" Robb pipes up.

"Yeah… It's not mu-Oh my Gosh!" she squeals suddenly, loudly. "My boots!" she hugs the things to her chest. "I would have died without these!" she sighs dramatically.

"I take it you really like boots," the Stark chuckles. She catches him peering amusedly at another pair of ankle boots.

She grins bashfully now. "Like is an understatement. An insult, even. I love my boots, especially these ones," she taps against the black thigh-highs in her arms. "I could literally burst into a ball of flames, if anything were to happen to my babies."

"Your babies?" the young man questions, amusement tugging at his lips.

"What?" she asks, dramatically as if offended. "Haven't you ever loved anything so much?"

"Aye, my sword."

She rolls her eyes. "That is such a man-thing to say."

"And I take it, loving an article of clothing isn't a woman-thing to say," he quips back.

Nadia only answers with light chuckle and shake of her head. She concedes. She replaces her thigh-high pair to its place just as Robb returns the small ankle boot to its own. "What will you do with it?" he asks, nodding at her baggage.

"Keep it." Nadia replies like it's the most obvious thing. "It's not much but it's all I got left. And I'm not hiding it either," she adds. "I'm stuck in this story but I'm still gonna be me."


	8. Ask no questions You'll be told no lies

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hi everyone! I don't have much to say about this chapter; it's all in the title, I guess. If what Nadia says - or doesn't say - confuses some of you, I promise it will become clearer why in a few more chapters. At this moment, she's playing her cards close to her chest.

Now... REVIEWS:

lilnudger82: I agree. Poor Rickon. I really loved reading your chapter by chapter reviews. I'm glad you liked the story

shamrockus: I'm glad you like the story. I hope to continue to surprise you (in good ways)

TMI Fairy: Cannot agree with you anymore. Nadia is highly aware of Robb's major downfall and it's going to have serious repercussions for both of them but not in ways she'll expect. Although the question remains... how much could actually change. I hope you continue to enjoy the story :)

* * *

 **ROBB**

He accepts Theon's outstretched arm, allowing himself to be hefted off his arse. The Ironborn wears a broad smirk, proud to have been able to get one over his Northern friend in yet another of their friendly spars. The older man looks set to deliver some cock-arsed arrogant little quip. But at the last moment his grey eyes focus on something over Robb's shoulder. Following his gaze, the heir to Winterfell spots a familiar dark-haired maiden. Walking alongside the Maester, she seems engaged in amicable conversation with the old man, she's completely unaware of the odd looks she attracts from some around her.

"Now that's something I could get used to," Theon voices in a tone Robb's unfortunately all too familiar with.

Despite his better judgement, the young wolf asks, "What?"

"Watching her walk away. I must say, those pants do fine justice to her arse."

Robb's eyes turn on the Greyjoy, a certain anger behind it. He's not unaccustomed to Theon's crude remarks regarding women, but then it was usually whores or daughters of visiting Lords. Somehow with Nadia it feels… wrong. Perhaps it's because he's more familiar with her.

Since their trip to the lake, he'd kept his word to her. Some days, after spending mornings helping the people, afternoons playing with Rickon and evenings watching over Bran and his mother, Robb would return to his chambers where, instead of throwing himself onto his feather-soft mattress, he'd bend over scrolls, books, anything that had even the slightest mention of the Convergence. They'd been going over what the old Maester already had, hoping their fresh eyes would pick up on something he'd missed. But as yet, their efforts have proven fruitless.

Nadia would join him in his chambers, lugging with her more texts she'd acquired from Maester Luwin. Only the Maester, Theon and his mother had been privy to the truth of her appearance in Winterfell. The people themselves, know very little about the mysterious girl; only that she is a traveller from a foreign land seeking refuge and aid amongst the Starks. It isn't far from the truth.

Though Robb still hears the whispers. He knows they suspect something more. Suspect that she is more different, more foreign than he makes it out to be. It's obvious by the way she speaks; even more so by the way she dresses, as Theon so charmingly points out.

Despite his protests, she insists on wearing her own clothes around Winterfell. "I don't care what people think. This is all I've got of my world. I'm not gonna let it go to waste, collecting dust in the corner," she'd argued. "Don't worry. I'll keep it modest," she had promised, She has for the most part. But she can't very well help the fact that most of her clothes are rather... snug. It certainly doesn't stop Theon from looking.

"I thought you weren't interested in her," Robb asks, clapping him in the back to gain his attention.

"I'm not. Doesn't mean I can't appreciate a nice piece of arse," Theon quips, then cheekily adds, "Hasn't stopped you." Robb chokes on his words at the accusation. It only causes Theon's shit-eating smirk to grow. "What? All those long nights. You can't honestly expect me to believe you two have only been reading."

"That's exactly what I expect, because it's the truth. Nadia is my ward. I offered her my help. I don't plan to -"

"-take a tumble in the hay?" The Ironborn's crude chuckle cuts through. "You embarrass me Robb. I thought I taught you better."

Robb shoves him away, as they head into the main courtyard. "If you're so interested, why don't you try your luck," he suggests, more to push the heckling off him.

Theon waves a hand at this. "She always looks like someone just died."

While Theon's not wrong - rather terribly accurate, horrifically even - Robb supposes Nadia doesn't have much reason to smile. She's trapped in a world that she'd thought to be make-believe.

But she's not always been morose. A soft smile plays on his face as he recalls the few times he'd seen the young woman (he was rather shocked to learn she's a few years older than himself) actually smile. He realises, after some moments, that Theon's stopped talking and is now fixing him with a curious look.

"What?"

"I said, have you asked her what she knows? About Bran?"

"No."

"What do you talk about when you're together?"

The remark causes him to stop in his tracks. Blinking, he admits slowly, with an air of sheepishness, "We don't really talk at all."

From the corner of his eye, he can see his father's ward blink slowly, than hang his head in shame. Theon sighs heavily. Clapping Robb in the back, Theon pushes the younger man forward towards the citadel. "And here I thought your bastard of a brother was hopeless with women."

* * *

Clouds of dust rise from the ancient tomes. Shoving a small pile from him, Robb allows his head to drop to the table, the soft thud echoing quietly throughout the silent room. Nothing. Every night for a week he'd been at it and still absolutely no new information on the Convergence, let alone news on how Nadia could return to her home world, if that was even a possibility.

Speaking of the girl, Robb lifts his head, tilting it upwards so as to better see her. His eyes study her features carefully. Pouting lips, creased forehead, unruly hair falling in her face. From beneath thick lashes, dark brown eyes flicker about tirelessly behind closed lids.

"Nadia," he softly says, nudging her leg with his.

"I'm awake," she moans. Pushing her face off the table, she sends him a sheepish look. "Sorry, I'm just a little tired."

"The voices-"

"It's nothing. Really," she lies. He narrows his eyes at her, but she avoids looking at him.

"Nadia," he presses, only to receive the same rebuttal from her end. She insists she's fine, but he's not blind, he can see the dark circles beneath her eyes. Nor is he deaf to the muffled screams that float across the hallway to his room, in the depths of the night. He'd tried to wake her those times, but only succeeded in calming her trembling figure, all the while desperately trying to find the right words to guide her back to sweeter dreams. And every morning when he'd face her, she'd act as if he'd not seen a thing; Robb was quick to realise that it's because she has no recollection of him being in her room. He thinks it best to just not bring it up, unsure how she would react to him seeing her in such a vulnerable state.

Rolling her neck, Nadia's gaze falls on the beast watching them with guarded eyes from the corner. "I don't think your direwolf likes me."

"Grey Wind?" Robb sets his eyes on his familiar. The animal is indeed staring at them - correction, staring at Nadia with an expression that would border on curious and predatory. "I suppose he's trying to determine if you're a threat."

"To you?" He nods in response, causing her to scoff. "Right. I'll just bludgeon you to death with my endless wit." Her words elicit a chuckle from him, causing her to shoot him a falsely affronted look. "Are you mocking me? I swear, you better sleep with one eye open."

"I could have you thrown in the stocks for that, you know," he teases, lowering his voice to what should be an intimidating tone.

Nadia simply rolls her eyes, unaffected. "Is that the worst you can do?"

Raising his brows at the challenge, the young Lord raises his left hand in a subtle calling manner. In the corner, Grey Wind rises onto all fours and slowly stalks towards their table.

Nadia's amusement drops. In its place is a sudden fear. "What are doing?" she asks, unable to hinder the tremble of her voice.

"Relax. I'm not actually going to set him against you... I thought you would like to meet him." Just as he finishes, he stands from his seat, moving to kneel besides the creature. Grey Wind nuzzles against his master's hand but his topaz eyes never stray from the woman watching them. Robb looks back at her. "Come on."

She hesitates. Her dark eyes flit between himself and Grey Wind. Finally, biting her lips, she gets up from her seat. With slow, steady steps Nadia draws herself just short of them.

"Now what?" she breathes.

Taking her hand gently in his own, Robb tugs her closer. He holds her wrist, so that her open palm is mere inches from Grey Wind's face. Now it's up to his direwolf to approve or reject the girl.

As they wait, he subtly makes notes of her faster than normal pulse increasing with speed, beneath his fingertips. It seems ages, when Grey Wind shifts forward. His wet nose ever so slightly touching Nadia's palm.

Robb's eyes watch her face. She's transfixed on the creature. There's an amusement and tenderness he'd not yet seen in her. Nadia crouches by his side, one hand running through Grey Wind's fur, the other scratching under his chin. By the looks of it, the direwolf is enjoying the interaction as much as she is.

"He's more beautiful than I imagined," she whispers, in awe. Grey Wind soaks up the girl's attention, head lolling to the side, tongue popped out. "Awwwww, he's so sweet. Just look at those big puppy eyes," she coos as one would an infant.

Robb smiles. "You don't have direwolves in your world?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Ummm, no," she answers quickly, distracted by the wolf nudging at her playfully. "I think they're either long extinct or simply a part of the myths. Magic doesn't exist in my world, like it does here."

This reminds him of something else Theon mentioned earlier. A question that had been tugging at the back of his mind since he pulled her from the lake.

"How much do you know, about this world."

Her movements slow down. She bites her lips; he's started to realise this is quite the habit for her. "A lot... and not much at the same time." She must have seen his bemused expression because she continues, "I don't know exactly when things happen. Time in the story was a little obscure. But I'd have to guess about in and around a few years from when you find the direwolves. And some history."

"That's a lot of time," he comments. She nods, distractedly. "A lot happens... here... King's Landing... like all over Westeros and Beyond the Wall and in the free cities," she rushes.

"You know that much?" She nods in answer. "Is that how you knew about Bran?" Her movements stiffens. For a few seconds she struggles to find her voice. When she does, she weakly deviates, saying, "You're talking about a conversation I don't even remember."

"But it true. Isn't it," he pushes. Hesitantly she nods, her eyes avoiding his gaze. "Do you know who pushed him?" A nod again. "Who?"

Robb waits with bated breath. A sick feeling settles in the pit of his stomach, watching the turmoil of emotions cross her face. Finally she opens her mouth and he can feel his fingernails cutting into his palms impatiently.

"I can't tell you."

Robb's jaw clenches. "Why not?" She stays quiet and it only angers him further. "Why not, Nadia?"

"It's complicated."

"Lucky for you, I'm no halfwit. So why don't you explain it to me."

"Robb-"

Rising from the ground he leans over her. "Someone pushed my brother from a tower. They meant to see him dead! And you expect me to let them get away. What if they try again. And succeed. You said it so yourself-"

"I don't even remember saying it-" she weakly defends.

"I save your life. Twice. I offer you food and shelter. Saw that my Maester cared for you. Offered to help you find your way home. And you can't grant me one name?" His heated gaze barely hides his frustration. Her eyes flash up to meet his, watching him steadily from beneath thick lashes. "Are you really too heartless to care that a ten year old boy was almost killed," he seethes beneath clenched teeth, though his voice remains cool.

Whatever sadness or guilt she may have seen in those eyes eyes of hers, quickly melt away to anger. Standing to match his height, her face comes dangerously close to his. "Are you fucking kidding me?" she spits out and Robb almost does a double take. "You think this easy for me? Being trapped in this fucked up world, with no conceivable way of returning home to my family and my friends. Knowing the things I know? I want to tell you, Robb. I do. I really do," she pauses quickly, an almost sad expression shading her features. "I want to tell you about every horrible fucking thing that's gonna happen to you. But then what? In a moment of selfishness, I change the entire story. No human, should have that kind of power… over fate... over people."

"Perhaps some good will come of it," Robb whispers, somewhat heatedly and somewhat consolingly. Nadia simply shakes her head, her gaze dropping to his house sigil on his chest. "The story is called Game of Thrones for a reason, Robb. There are no winners or losers; Only those who survive and those who don't. I can't consciously play with people's lives like that... you included," she adds. The Drawing her gaze back to his, he sees a sudden fury there. "I am grateful for your help. And I hate what happened to Bran. So don't just assume that I'm some cold-hearted bitch."

Emotions of rage, fear and guilt fill the space between them. It seems hours that they're locked in a heated staring match, that he starts to see her crumble. Stepping away from him, she drops her eyes. "Sorry. Fuck, I-um... It's late. I think, I should go."

Robb can only stand and stare as her figure disappears from his chambers. He stays silent even as Grey Wind nips at his fingers, in a not so friendly manner.

Perhaps Theon was right. Robb is terrible with women.


	9. It's a Matter of Perspective

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hello lovely readers! So I think this is either the second or third chapter I am pushing out in the last 24 hours. Honestly, I'm just really keen to get it out. I do have a fair bit of the story written already; I started it about a year ago, but recently decided I wanted to up the ante with the supernatural as well as Robb and Nadia's relationship towards the start. So this story that I'm posting now is actually the rewrite of my original piece, but it will soon taper out into the original plotline.

Anyway. Onto more important things: REVIEWS or more accurately, REVIEW:

TMI Fairy: I take it by your smiley faces that you are enjoying the story. Yes, I had to throw that "how much can I change" in very early, because I just don't think the story would be good if every just sits down and sings kumbi ya, now. This is gonna be a very long story, and extremely slow burn. Like almost Steroline level slow-burn. Almost. And Nadia's worry about how much she can alter is a key part of her character development, not to mention a major recurrent cause for tension between her and Robb. It's an issue that's not going away any time soon, so I saw no reason to put it off. As for her clothes... lol, yes I agree with you. I didn't think it would be too bad, cos down South - as Robert Baratheon says - a lot of women wear a lot of silk and show a lot of skin, and I don't think he meant just the whores. In terms of clothes, Nadia's tast is still not quite as scandalous as Margaery or Daenerys has been at times. Though, like most modern clothes, it can be rather *cough, cough* fitting. But at the same time, she's packed for a conservative Australian summer. She basically just has the two pairs of leggings a bunch of camis, short summer dresses and a jacket or two. Nadia's aware on a subconscious level that her idea of conservative is a bit racy for these folk, but at the same time it's hard for her to reconcile that she's been so stripped of all she is and has known, especially when she holds out hope to return to her home. Plus she doesn't see herself as particularly attractive and she really isn't all that gorgeous, so she doesn't really think she'll turn many heads. Her unique allure, exoticism and other attractive qualities are things that she and others will discover slowly and come to appreciate the beauty of.

Sorry that my reply to the review is just about as long as this chapter. But as you can see I'm really passionate about talking character development y'all.

Now onto the story... from a new perspective...

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or its characters. Those are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **CATELYN**

Her fingers brush through his dark auburn hair. He's been in bed for weeks, and yet there is nothing tussled about it as it once was. He looks perfect. Perfectly still, if not for the ever so slight rise and fall of his chest, soft ragged breaths drawn peacefully in and out.

A sad smile pulls at her lips as Catelyn runs her fingers down her baby's cheeks. Her Tully eyes trail over each individual freckle marking his young sweet face, and she can't help but think how much he looks like his uncle when Edmure had been a boy. Thankfully Bran had never lived up to his uncle's foolishness, save for his attraction to climb walls like the Sothoryos monkeys she'd once read about as a child.

A tear trails down her cheek, glistening a moment as it hangs from her chin, before falling to touch her boy's cheek. How she wishes she'd done more for him. A crippling sensation burns through her hand. Angry red stains bleed through the gauze bandaging. She recalls the cool fire as the blade has sliced through her delicate skin, forever marring her, crippling her. She can no longer fully clench her fist, or even hold something of substantial weight without it slipping from her grasp. Her hand might as well be made of soap.

"Mother," Robb's deep voice connects with her back. She stiffens briefly, unable to help the flinch. "I'm sorry. I should have knocked," her eldest apologises.

She waves him off, a weak grin on her face. "It would have not changed a thing, Robb." He nods, understanding.

"Why did you call me?"

"I thought perhaps my son would like to accompany throughout the grounds today," she answers, expression warm, even as his eyes study her with scrutiny.

"You're leaving the room?"

"Yes. Now come along. I am an old woman. Let's not waste the sunlight," she teases, offering one last kiss to Bran's cheek, before brushing past Robb. He's quick to match her steps, and then some.

"You're far from old, mother," he says, kindly offering her his arm. She curls her own around it, shaking her head amusedly. They walk silently for some minutes, through Winterfell's halls, and out into the main courtyard. Above them the skies are grey, but the sunlight manages to break through the clouds ever so briefly, enriching the atmosphere just that much more.

Catelyn inquires as to Robb's welfare, hoping he's not been driving himself mad in her absence. She's ashamed of how she's been acting, recalling how her son had plead with her that night not long ago. He'd begged her to help him, or at the very least to take better care of herself rather than waste away watching over Bran. In retrospect, Catelyn despises how neglectful she's been of him and of Rickon. "I don't blame you. You must know that," Robb tells her, obviously sensing her guilt-ridden thoughts. She appreciates his attempt to placate her, but nothing he says can ease that weight. Only she can do that, by stepping up to her duties as mother and Lady of Winterfell.

"How have the books been?"

Robb sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It's not been easy. Between the King's feasts and the repairs required on the library tower… and with Winter coming, I don't feel it fair to raise tax on the people."

"Nor should you," Cat agrees. "We're not like the Lannisters or other petty lords. We'll find a way to pay the debt without burdening our people."

"Perhaps I should your old friend a letter, asking the crown compensate what they consumed here."

She shakes her head. "A feast for a King is a gift to him. He cannot pay for it himself."

"Then perhaps he should reign in his gluttony before he starve his people."

"Robb!" Catelyn pulls him to a stop. Her son is unable to hide the anger behind his eyes. "I cannot deny that I agree with you, but Robert Baratheon is still our King, and your father's dearest friend. Have respect. And be grateful the Targaryens are not still on the throne."

For a few delayed moments, his irritance remains on his face, then it crumbles as a berated child's would. Robb mutters a soft apology.

"Don't," she tells him. "You've come under quite a bit of stress lately. It's understandable." At that, a strange expression overcomes Robb's face. A mix of anger and guilt. "What is it?" she asks to no avail. Her son simply shakes it off, pretending as if nothing bothers him. "Robb-"

"I am fine, mother. You worry too much."

"As a mother should. Robb you can tell me. I will listen."

At that very moment they reach the tiltyard. The sound of squeals and giggles echoes throughout the small square. Catelyn's eyes stray from her eldest son to her youngest. The very sight of his broad smile, the cheeky glint in his blue eyes, coupled with his playful laughter as he swings his wooden sword about, is enough to bring warmth to the coldness that had been suffocating her heart these past weeks.

Like sunlight breaking through the clouds after a great storm.

Rickon comes to a sudden halt. He glances this way and that, searching for something. Or someone.

"Where is she, Shaggydog?"

'She?' Catelyn quirks a brow, curious as to who Rickon is referring to. Perhaps one of the maids daughters? She's not ignorant to the way Robb tenses by her side.

The small, scraggly black pup circles about the yard, his nose to the ground. Rickon follows behind with earnest. The pair approach a particularly large tree. That's when Catelyn sees her. The girl who saved herself and Bran, silently emerging from the opposite side of the tree, carefully keeping herself out of the little boy's sight.

Unfortunately for the girl, all her sneaking cannot outmatch a direwolf's nose. The little pup bounds around the tree, his master at his heel. They set upon the young woman, tackling her to the ground in a fit of giggles.

Catelyn cannot help the smile that tugs at her lips, nor the foreboding she feels towards the girl.

Robb's fists remain curled, his jaw taut at the sight of the woman, a fact that doesn't go unnoticed by the former Tully. "Rickon seems fond of her," she notes aloud, observing the girl turn tables on Rickon, attacking him with tickles. The lad's stubbornness to admit defeat lasts a whole ten seconds.

"Rickon's a child," her eldest replies.

The girl lets go of Rickon, pushing herself up to sit against the tree while he does the same. Shaggydog settles himself in the space between their feet.

"You don't trust her?" He's quiet. Contemplative. "Robb?"

"She warned me, that horrible times are yet to come for us. But refuses to do anything, say anything else, that could help us. After everything I've done for her… I don't understand how she could be so selfish." His eyes haven't left the girl, watching her with tenacity and wariness.

Catelyn follows her son's gaze back to the object of their discussion. The raven-haired woman with her son curled up by her side, watching her with awe-struck eyes as she tells him a tale - no doubt one of her world. Rickon - young though he may be - is genuinely taken with her and, if Cat's not mistaken, Nadia seems to care for him too.

Catelyn has always been one to think that the way one conducts themselves with children, especially those that are not their own, is very telling of their character. And despite her own initial misgivings about the girl, she cannot deny the girl's actions as of recently have been anything but good. And yet, her son is right. They know little of who she really is, and even less of what she knows. From what Robb's said, Nadia's reluctant to share this with them.

They would be fully within their rights to turn her away, leave her to fend for herself. They would if they were crueller people; If Robb hadn't given her his word.

"Is she dangerous?" Catelyn asks, memories of that night with the assassin vivid in her mind, even now. It's a question she knows the answer to, yet she still won't make up her mind without hearing out Robb.

"Yes." Monosyllabic. Certain.

"Is she a threat to us?"

He takes longer to answer. Cat's eyes never stray from her youngest and the girl, all the while watching Robb's stoic expression in her peripheral. Finally he answers, with a sigh, "No."

No other words are exchanged between the pair of them. They simply stand and watch the pair in the tiltyard. That's how Theon finds them. Nodding respectfully to herself, before turning and whispering something in Robb's ear. Her son sighs, running a hand through his hair. He mutters under his breath, turning to her with an expression that says it all.

"Go," she smiles fondly, cradling his cheek in one hand.

The young men leave her be. Her gaze following her son down the hallway until he disappears, wondering when he'd grown up into a man.

Wondering what these horrible events the girl speaks of could be.

Wondering where they stand in these political games of treachery and deceit.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE REVIEW**


	10. Atypical Morning

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hi readers new and old! This is an updated rewrite of this chapter. Again not much change except Stefan has been changed to Matt, and word of Nadia grabbing luggage from her parents' place is no longer here. Where she got her things from is still a mystery for much later down the road...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

She wakes in a cold sweat, scream dying on her lips at the sight of the very familiar stone walls. She almost finds the irony amusing, telling herself she's safe here where she's a captive, safe in a world where everyone dies.

Black eyes flicker to the window; the sun is just peeking over the horizon and from what she's gathered that'd make it about 5:30. It would still be many hours till most rest of Winterfell wakes. Peeling back the covers, revealing her near naked form, Nadia lazily shifts herself from the bed. Her feet pad across the stone to the window. Eyes closed, she relishes in the cool air to kiss away the heat from her skin and hopefully some of the tension she'd been carrying.

The dreams are becoming a rather frequent affair, this being the fourth night this week. In her entire twenty years, Nadia could only recall four dreams, all of which had been nightmares. The first two were the same; she'd been trapped in her home, chased by zombies. The third time, she'd been trapped in her school with her friend during a zombie apocalypse. The fourth time, she recalls being pleasant until a shadow of a woman appeared; the woman was there for barely three seconds, but there was something about the way she called Nadia's name that frightened her. She mayn't have been a zombie, but her aura reeked of death.

It seems nothing had changed since she'd arrived in this second Earth. She never remembers her dreams, only her nightmares... but now she's been having them nearly every night.

Biting her lip, she turns away from the window, determined to push the nightmares from her mind. Slipping on a floral cami and black leggings over her underwear, she moves to the mirror to fix her hair and draw her eyes. A large part of her realises that she's not dressing up to head out to Uni or to hang out with her friends, and yet she can't seem to shake the pattern she'd gotten into these past few years (after she'd stopped being stubborn and accepted that eyeliner with the right lipstick is a godsend). She'd been honestly surprised to find the small make-up kit in her suitcase; in fact she'd been surprised by half of what she'd found. Truthfully, Nadia can scarcely remember the night she'd gone to collect the last of her things… It had all been a blur of her and Matt going through her old room, grabbing whatever and throwing it in her bag.

Blinking quickly, Nadia tries to stop the wetness of her eyes from ruining her all her hard work with the eyeliner. Ruffling her short raven locks just a tad bit, she glances out the window again. Grey skies stare back at her, the cool breeze now more biting to her more alert senses. Throwing on black blazer, Nadia stumbles into her boots and out of the room.

She pauses outside her door, eyes boring into that across from hers.

During her short time in Winterfell, she's become familiar with castle. Safe to say, she was a little perturbed by the fact that Robb's chambers lie across from hers. Did he hear her screams? How many nights had he heard them? Why did he never bother to check on her?

Blinking she realises she's not sure what is a better option; having him ignore her or having him see her like that again, vulnerable, weak, so unlike herself. Given she's barely said a word to him since that night in his room, and even gone to great lengths to avoid seeing him or risk he actually act on his threat of throwing her in the stocks, Nadia chooses the former.

Her feet lead her through the empty hallways. Few guards nod at her in passing, but for the most part they ignore her. It's as if by some silent code the people of Winterfell have accepted their strange new guest without question. They may stare and whisper but no one outrightly questions her identity and background. That's good enough for her now.

Arriving at her destination, Nadia stops dead in her tracks at the sight that awaits her. A pair of Tully blue eyes stare at her and she stares back. The older woman's eyes are calculating, the tension raw, palpable.

Realising she looks like an idiot just standing there, the nineteen year old clears her throat. "Sorry, I-um. I didn't think anyone would be here. Normally no one is but... you probably don't even care. I'll just go," she rushes.

But just as she's about to turn on her heel, Lady Stark's calls out to her, beckoning to come forth. Nadia swallows the lump in her throat. Hesitantly, she obeys the woman, a little fearful of the commanding tone she'd spoken with. It's not a long walk, inherently she knows this. And yet each step feels a second too long under Lady Stark's scrutinising gaze. Nadia can feel those Tully blue eyes tracing her figure; studying her expression, her posture, her gait; assessing her every attribute in this short yet painfully long walk.

It's been days since the her standoff in Robb's room. If Nadia knows anything about Robb from the show, it's that no confidant is more trusted than his mother. Whatever ill-opinion he carries of her now, no doubt he's shared it with his mother.

Nadia really wishes now that it was Cersei who'd pushed Bran. She'd gladly give up that bitch to the Starks. Why the hell does Jaime have to actually be a worthwhile character?

Nadia comes to a standstill, just across the table from Cat, her mind still weighing up the pros and cons of Jaime Lannister, as if she's back with Alyssa and Avie marathoning the show. All the while, Cat still seems to be making her assessment of the girl. The red-haired woman stares up at Nadia, expression hard for a scarce moment. Then… "Take a seat, dear," she gestures for Nadia. Nadia's shock must carry through to her expression, for the woman chuckles a little, insisting this time that Nadia join her. "I don't bite."

Forcing a smile, Nadia nervously obeys. They sit for some seconds in quiet, only the sound of Catelyn's cutlery echoing through the great room. "You're not hungry?"

Before the girl can respond, her stomach growls loudly. She mutters a bashful, "Sorry," hands wrapping around her torso, as if to silence the rumblings.

"Eat. That's what you came here for. Do not let me stop you."

This feels like a test. Of what, Nadia's not entirely sure. Ignoring her craving for the platter of bacon sitting right there, she reaches for the bread. Correction, she takes a single roll of bread and nibbles at it. Catelyn is still watching her, though more subtly this time, from beneath her lashes.

The silence consumes them once again. And it is painful.

Just when Nadia thinks she should excuse herself feigning illness - only halfway through her small roll - Catelyn breaks the tension. "I'd like to thank you, Nadia."

The raven-haired girl looks as if she's been slapped. Lips slightly parted, wide doe eyes. A crease appears between her brows, "My lady-"

"Please. You saved my Bran's life. And mine. If you were a mother, you would understand that is a price that can never be repaid enough. I only wish I could have thanked you earlier."

The girl only just manages to stutter out, "Your welcome," completely taken aback by this show of gratitude.

The older woman takes this opportunity to apologise... "I have not been a good host. I hope you can forgive me?"

The girls shakes her head, furiously almost. "You don't have to apologise. Your son needed you."

Catelyn nods, "I hope Robb has been good to you. A better host than I at the very least."

Nadia seems conflicted to answer. Despite how icy things have been between herself and the younger man, she's not one to talk ill of a son to his parents, especially when he is understandably justified in his current opinion of her. "We may have our... issues. But Robb - Lord Robb, I mean - has been extremely kind and understanding, given... everything," she struggles out.

"Yes. My son has informed me of your gifts."

"Affliction, more like it." The girl's words are not meant for Catelyn's ears, but she can't help that particular slip of the tongue. Biting her lip Nadia drops her gaze, not wanting to see the look in Cat's eyes at her snark.

A tender hand finds its place on hers. "It must be difficult, being apart from your family in a time like this." It's strange to hear such pity from the older woman. Nadia feels undeserving of it. Giving Lady Stark a tight-lipped smile, she replies, "I dunno. I kinda get the feeling that the Convergence or whatever brought me here sorta triggered my… abilities... like a spark to the flame." Eyes dropping to their hands, she adds, "Even if it weren't the case, I don't think I could tell my parents. They aren't the most... understanding people."

"I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "Don't be. I loved my parents, despite our issues. They made it difficult at times… most of the time, but I loved them."

Catelyn smiles sympathetically. "Do you have siblings?"

She's not quite sure where the Lady is going with these questions, but for the time being she answers them. "No. When I was younger I loved the attention. The older I got… I wanted a big brother. Someone to take care of me, you know."

Catelyn nods empathetically. "I was the oldest daughter but I wanted that also. I found it a burden being the first. All that responsibility, caring for my siblings. Making sure they stayed out of trouble and behaved themselves for our parents. It didn't help that my dear baby brother - Seven bless him - was an utter fool. Still is." A small giggle escapes Nadia. The two women exchange a look as if to agree all boys are fools. "It's strange how that responsibility becomes less of a burden when it transfers to your children," Catelyn says. Her face and tone have grown serious in the short few seconds, causing Nadia to frown. "Would you like children someday?"

"Um…"

"Forgive me. I don't mean to pry."

"No, no it's fine," Nadia rushes, looking incredibly guilty, as if Catelyn's intrusiveness is her fault. "Not like my friends and I haven't talked about that sort of stuff. Babies. Names. Weddings. All that jazz." Catelyn can't help her surprise. Looking at the woman beside her - hands scraped and dirtied with mud, patch of grass and dust clinging to her shins and elbows where she's no doubt tripped over herself in her games with Rickon - the Lady Stark would have thought her to be of the same league as Arya, boyish and roguish and without feminine flair or interest; Not exactly one to discuss wistful girlish dreams… ' _Just like Sansa.'_ The thought of her daughters so far away from her brings a twinge of pain and uncertainty to her heart.

The young maiden isn't ignorant to this subtle change, though she has little-to-no idea the cause of it. Softly she says, "Lady Stark?"

Shaking her head, Catelyn replies with a sheepish smile, "It seems my mind escaped me for a moment's thought." Robb would push her to explain. So would Ned. For this reason, Catelyn appreciates that Nadia doesn't and let's it be, offering only an understanding smile, her dark eyes shining with a little concern. "So, children?"

"Oh, um," Nadia chews her lip. "Yeah-Yes, I mean. At least it was yes. Not that it still isn't yes. It is. It's just a _not now_ , yes. Not that it ever was a _now_ -sort-of yes. I mean, well, I'm a bit too young to have kids. Especially now with everything going on, I mean my life is literally falling apart around my head, you know. Well, of course you know. Oh God, I'm not one to talk am I? I mean. You and Bran a-and the assassin-" the girls promptly bites her tongue, her cheeks flamed, wincing as she tries shake off her embarrassment. Catelyn is surprised Nadia has any breath left in her body to keep upright by the end of that rant. "I'm sorry. Sorry. I jus-I don't know why I said that. That was stupid. I'm stupid. I swear I have no brain to mouth filter. Really, I'm really sor-"

"Nadia." The girls silences herself, ducking her head to avoid looking the older woman in the face.

Catelyn's not sure what to make of this woman. Usually she's quite perceptive about people. Had she not felt her skin crawl when the Queen smiled at her dear Sansa, promising her sweet daughter to that spoilt blonde spawn of hers? Had she not felt the cool dread loom over her house as Ned brought back news of a Stag and Direwolf killed by each other's hand? Had she not warned Robb not to ride out into the woods that cool, chilling night, when the mist clung to the dirt and the crows cawed ravenously in their cages? The very same night she'd seen him return, from Bran's window, soaking through to the bone, pale-faced and icy blue eyes holding nothing but concern for the mysterious dark-haired figure wrapped within his arms, sharing his cloak and his heat. Had Catelyn not questioned his choice to bring a stranger into their home?

She's not normally so callous, to turn away those who need help. But Catelyn cannot deny the odd feeling that nagged at her when she'd seen this girl from afar and again when she'd delivered some obscure, unholy prophecy. Yet when Catelyn sees this girl now, she's not sure what to think. Yes, she still feels that nagging torment, though it's tamed, subdued; she believes it has more to do with the girl's… affliction… than with the girl herself.

Unclenching her jaw, she releases Nadia's hand. "My son is not sure what to make of you. He wants to trust you, but he believes that you are not a very trusting person. And I do not blame him," Catelyn speaks, commanding an ease and solemnity that a woman only gains after years of watching her Lord Husband do the very same. "We know nothing about you. You do not tell him the things you know." Nadia fidgets beneath her unwavering gaze, chewing her lips nervously as her eyes flicker about anywhere but Catelyn's face. "I am grateful for what you have done for Bran. But I must warn you that earning my trust is still a long ways away. Especially now."

"I know."

"I know you are not my enemy. But that doesn't mean you do not pose threat to my family. I need you to know that."

"Yes… my Lady." Catelyn observes, the clenched jaw and pursed lips that quiver ever so slightly. ' _The girl does well to hide her distraught,'_ Perhaps the Lady Stark does feel the slightest bit guilty. Sighing, she adds, "I'm sorry I have disturbed your morning."

"N-no. You have every right, I guess. You're a mama looking out for her cubs."

"Pups," Catelyn corrects, though there's the smallest hint of a smile.

"Pups. Right. 'Cause they're Direwolves…" An awkward silence, hangs between them. After what appears to be serious internal conflict, Nadia utters, "Four."

"Pardon?"

"Four… You asked about children. I'd like four…" she trails off, uncertain and suddenly regretting mentioning that. Gosh, she's so awkward...

"Four?"

Chewing her bottom lip, Nadia nods. "Yeah… three boys and a girl. And hopefully in that order."

"So that she has big brothers to protect her?" Catelyn asks, correctly recalling Nadia's words.

"Yea-yes."

It changes nothing, alleviates none of Catelyn's doubts and questions regarding the girl. Yet she allows the corners of her lips to tug upwards, visibly. Warmly. "That sounds perfect."


	11. Someone to hold my bleeding hand

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** Hello my lovely readers!

So we've reached chapter 11. Yay! Ten down... plenty more to come. I've said this before, and I'm going to say this again, this is a slow burn story. I'm not just talking about their romantic relationship. But I promise to deliver chapters that are heavy, captivating and suspenseful, even when extremely lighthearted (kinda like a good episode of Teen Wolf or Riverdale).

If you guys have any questions... please REVIEW. If you have any opinions... please REVIEW. If you wanna say hi... please say HI (in the REVIEW section). I want to set a challenge to all my readers, anonymous and not, that we can reach one hundred reviews in the next week. It's because I wanna know where y'all are at with the story, how you feel about it, what you like, don't like, confuses you, what theories you have about this story, or whether you like some of the Easter Eggs I've dropped in it (i.e. references to other shows, films and books, or music, or even politics... I'm pretty sure Donald Trump makes into one of Nadia's musings. Let's be honest, it's hard to turn the news on and not see him on it). If you have any questions about how this reality works... anything really that you'd like to ask or say, please REVIEW.

And if you do review, I will answer it in following chapters.

Now... onto the story.

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **ROBB**

Lannister.

Blonde haired, green-eyed assassins flash before his eyes, a haze of red drowning out all rational thought.

Why?

Why them?

Why Bran?

' _He saw something. Something he shouldn't have seen.'_ And yet… ' _He's just a boy. An sweet, innocent boy, whom they tried to murder in cold blood.'_ He can still see Bran's mangled body on the cot; still hear the child's unconscious screams echoing through the stone hallways with every crack and snap of his bones under their Maester's artful manipulation.

What if the fall had been higher? Or the force had been greater? Robb cannot deny the nights his dreams had been haunted by the sight of their hunting party returning to find the ten year old's corpse, bleeding out onto the summer snows at the base of the Broken Tower. He'd imagined their direwolves howling sombrely in unison, a mournful tune for what very nearly could have been his lost brother.

Lannister.

He'd wanted a name. And now he has it. Yet he feels none the better for it. Only fury. Fury and fear. Robb's fingers itch for his sword. He's never taken a life, but at this moment he cannot imagine a joy more precious than to see pungent Lannister blood stain his steel. For a fleeting moment, he'd felt hope for such; with Theon behind him, his brother-in-arms. But only for a fleeting moment. And then Maester Luwin, ever the voice of reason, expunged all such boyish notions.

A battle in the Godswood.

It would be laughable should the situation not be so dire.

But no. There would not be a battle. No great act of vengeance. Only sly words and hushed warnings.

And what role will he play? The good son who stays at home, like a pathetic pup with his tail between his legs.

With a loud growl, the young Stark swipes his desk clean, papers and stationary littering the floor, a bottle of ink cracking against the stone; the black ink oozes across the cracks in the floor but Robb cares not. His chair is the next thing to be thrown, it's hind legs shattering against the post of his bed. The little desk is hurtled across the ground, impacting loudly against the far wall by the door. The sound could be heard several corridors down, but Robb cares not.

This tantrum, this destruction should be enough to subdue the outburst of his knotted emotions. Yet he can't help but feel it isn't enough. Nothing can be seen through the red haze. Only pain. Anger. Fear. His emotions threaten to overwhelm him. Suffocate him.

He doesn't understand. Why Bran? Why hurt Bran? How could someone come into their home, and abuse their guest rights like that?

Are the southerners not satisfied with all they've already taken from his family? His father. His sisters. They'd tried to take Bran. And now his mother too.

At the forefront of it his harried thoughts… _her_ warning. The mysterious riddle she'd delivered her first night in front of Bran's room.

He'd thought her crazy.

And then he learnt about her.

About the voices in her head.

' _Wolves will fall.'_ Nadia had said something along those lines. His gut clenches, a sense of foreboding tugging at it, threatening to pull him under, to drown him in worry.

Beating his fists against the wall, Robb doesn't hear the thump-thump of his knuckles; only the sound of his heartbeat pumping in his ears like a drum.

He doesn't hear the tentative knock on the door. Doesn't hear the creak of wood against stone. Doesn't hear her footsteps until she's only feet away. His hands fall to his sides.

"Robb." Her voice is like a whisper. He hates the concern in her tone.

"Get out."

"Ro-"

"Get out!" he growls. From the corner of his eye, he sees her shadow flinch back.

Robb closes his lids, just waiting for the sound of his door shutting, signalling her leave. But it never comes.

"Your hands are bleeding." Her voice is much closer now. Robb can almost feel her body heat. He knows he would not have to reach very far to touch her.

Grinding his teeth, the young lord commands this girl to leave him be. But his words seem to fall on deaf ears, for she presses on, determinedly. "Let me help you." Robb still refuses to look her in the face. He hears her sigh, feels the slightest brush of air against his stubbled cheek. "Please," she seems to beg. "It's not much but it's the least I can do for you."

An admission of guilt.

Her tawny fingers appear near his crimson fist, stopping short of touching him. She's waiting for his permission.

Robb releases a short breath through his nose. Clenching and unclenching his jaw. He turns his head, only enough to look at her sideways, and offers a stiff nod. Her reaction is to bite her lip to hold back the smile threatening to break her face.

The pair awkwardly shuffle around one another, Robb taking a seat on his displaced desk as instructed, while Nadia goes to retrieve a pitcher of water from his bedside. He silently watches her take notice of a flagon there too, pick it up and sniff its contents. "Rum?" she inquires, brows raised. He nods in reply. "May I…?" she carefully questions, tilting the flagon as she approaches him. Another nod.

"Got anything I can bandage with?"

He tucks into a desk drawer and comes away with a depleting roll of gauze cloth, placing it on the desk at his side.

Retrieving an empty bowl from the floor, Nadia lays out her equipment beside him. Rinsing out the bowl with water first, she then carefully fills it with his rum, sparingly. She carefully takes his hands in hers, chewing her lip nervously. From beneath dark lashes, she watches for his reaction, as if anticipating he'll pull away.

He doesn't. Though he'd be lying if he says his fists didn't tense at her cool touch. "Sorry. My hands are always cold," she mutters sheepishly, glancing up at him. Nadia proceeds to carefully pour the water out over his hands, and only then does he notice she'd also kicked his chamber pot between their feet to catch the water.

Replacing the pitcher on the table, she removes her coat and much to his surprise, soaks it in the rum. "This may sting a little," she warns before pressing the cloth to his fresh cuts. Robb had already anticipated the burn. So to feel nothing more than a discomfortable tingling, does surprise him. He watches her carefully dabs at his bloodied knuckles, brown eyes ignorant to his eyes wandering her face. Her brows are creased together, her bottom between her teeth; her chest rises and falls deeply but slowly, her warm breath brushing his fingers ever so slightly, such a stark comparison to her much colder hands nimbly working against his.

Robb recalls how not long ago their roles had been reversed. He'd remembered how his larger hands had fumbled much more with hers, recalls the muffled groans and slip-away cusses she'd uttered under her breath before apologising for her language. He specifically remembers how she'd instructed him to properly bandage her up.

In the present, she carefully manipulates the bandage around his knuckles, curling it through the hook of his thumb and index, around his palm, wrist and back again, alternating twists here and there to firmer the hold.

In the middle of the heavy, awkward silence that has enveloped the pair of them, the young woman says, "I'm sorry."

He looks at her. Really looks at her. Those dark eyes are watching him carefully, nervously from beneath her raven lashes. She bites her bottom lip. He can already see what's in her mind. Rejection.

His anger still bubbles away beneath the surface. But her words just sounded so honest. So genuine.

He nods.

Her eyes widen.

It's not forgiveness. But it is something. A step forward, perhaps. She waits again, not wanting to push her luck. It's a whole twenty seconds later before she speaks again (Robb knows this because he counts it, feeling the awkward tension seeping back in).

"How are you?"

It's a stupid question he thinks. Just looking around his room, he'd think it would be obvious how he's feeling. He's about to answer, when he feels it then. That fury. That rage, he'd felt before. It's not gone but it has dissipated. Now it's just the sense of mourning. Mourning his little brother. A ridiculous notion, given that Bran is still alive. ' _But he's not living.'_

It's that. But it's also something deeper than that. His family. He mourns them. He mourns for the happier times that now feel a lifetime ago but realistically was not even two months back. "You miss them," her rasp breaks through his brooding thoughts, "I get it. I do."

He finds himself staring into her brown eyes. She glances back down to her work. "I was sorta in your shoes a few months ago-" strange phrase, he thinks, but he doesn't question it, "I moved outta my parents'. Got a my own place. It's all I wanted for years. But when I went to bed that first night, it hit me. No more being taken care of, no more peddling responsibility, no more hiding my mistakes. I was all alone. I could do anything I wanted but now I had to be entirely, one hundred percent liable for every decision. There was no running back to my parents for help. It was just me. Paying my own way, surviving on my own. At least until my roommates moved in, but even then it's not the same. We still carry that burden, that responsibility that we're all adults now and we have to pull our weight or break." She finishes bandaging his arm, rising from her kneeling position. She hovers there a moment, waiting to see whether she should leave or stay.

His eyes train on his bandaged hands, almost glaring at the white material where his bloodied, broken skin hides beneath. "My whole life has been preparing me for this. To be Lord of Winterfell," he pauses for a breath. He glances at her from the corner of his eye; she's watching him closely, attentively. "I didn't think it would come this fast. I know the rules, how to act, how to react…"

"But knowing what to do and doing it is a different thing?" she offers.

Robb tilts his chin, clenching his jaw a little. Not out of anger, but as a nervous tick. "I've watched my father for years. The people respect him. Love him. He was supposed to be here, guide me as I succeed him.

I… I've barely been managing these past few weeks. My mother… she's just started returning to her old self, returning to running the household…"

"And now she's leaving."

"You knew. You knew it was the Lannisters." Nadia nods. "Why not tell us? What do you have to protect?"

No answer. He feels his anger at her rising again. He doesn't understand.

"What do you have to hide?" he demands lowly, trying to rein in his torrid emotions. Still no answer. "Nadia-"

"Myself," she whispers. So shameful is her expression, head bowed, cheeks flushed, voice practically hoarse. "Myself. I have to protect myself."

Robb stills. Incredulously he states, "You think we'd hurt you."

"No… but," she sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I told you. I can't play with fate, with people's lives. I can't have that on my conscience. I can't get involved Robb. This isn't… this isn't…"

"This isn't your world," he accurately surmises, not preventing his disappointment from bleeding through. "So why bother? Am I right? You could care less if Bran died-"

"No!"

"Then what is it?" Robb demands, rising to tower above her. She flinches back, but quickly recovers. Her dark brown gaze matches him with as much insult as he feels towards her. "Why did you try to stop the assassin?"

She frowns. "I don-"

"You said it yourself that Bran would have been fine. So why did you do it?"

Nadia swallows a lump in her throat, her defiant eyes growing less and less so under The young Stark's heated gaze. He doesn't let this shake his resolve. "Nadia," he coaxes, voice tempered and cool, like when he'd been training Grey Wind.

"I don't know," she whispers. "Going there. Tackling the assassin. It just felt… right."

"Right?"

"Like I just had to be there. Like they needed me - your mother and Bran - even though I knew they didn't."

Robb's bemused. She makes it sound as if she's a puppet, tied to one end of a string and someone or something pulled her to Bran's room that night. Guided her. Just like how she'd found those two corpses in the Bell Tower. Just like how she'd walked trance-like into the Bifrost. Against all rational thought, against all she'd known of this story they exist in, Nadia followed it. Whether it be the voices in her head, or her gut instinct, or may-he-be-damned but fate itself…

A throbbing ache permeates in his temples. _'It makes no sense._ ' And perhaps that's reason it should make perfect sense.

"I don't understand," he finds himself muttering anyway.

She shrugs casually but he can see the fear in her eyes; practically feel it radiate off her. She forces a small smile, pursing her lips a little. Her gaze doesn't meet his; she's focussed on his chest but seems detached, lost deep in her thoughts. Not for the first time be wonders what's going in this strange woman's mind. "Me neither," she eventually says, voice just above a hoarse whisper. "And that scares me, 'cause I don't know what to do."

The silence is terse. Palpable.

Robb's still thoroughly confused. He has a hundred and one questions on the tip of his tongue just begging to be answered. But unfortunately the young woman before him doesn't have all the answers he needs, and even if she does, he doubts she's in any position to answer. Not now at least.

Either way, regardless of whether he has the nerve to voice them or not, it would seem he doesn't have much of a choice. Because before he knows it, she's shooting him another one of her nervous forced smiles, apologising for something else she believes to be entirely her fault, and disappears from his room in such a haste that she manages to hit her leg on two different pieces of furniture, almost tripping over her own feet, all on her way out.

And what remains is a speechless lord, filled with nothing but contempt and guilt towards a raven-haired maiden, and many a question still unanswered.

His furry familiar manages to rouse from a deep and peaceful sleep just time to catch his master like this. Feeling Grey Wind's nudge against his palm, a sign of comfort and reassurance, Robb collapses back against his desk. Eyes flicker between his bandaged hands and the oaken door that she'd disappeared through.

Well, isn't this a situation he's familiar with.

* * *

 **A/N Please review! Or follow! Or both! :)**

 **Until next time,**

 **Amber**


	12. The Children are Our Future

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello wonderful readers! So it's been two weeks just about, 12 chapters and 35 followers so far! I'd like to thank you all! Especially for your reviews and PMs. They've been really kind and also very helpful. Some of you have raised really good questions in terms of how Nadia's handling her "knowledge" as well as minor things like clothes, reationships, etc. Some of you also have some theories... and some of those may be right.**

 **Earoier this week I set a challenge to be able to reach 100 reviews. I'm not sure I set a date, so now I' going to say by the 11th of March, can we try to reach 100 reviews! I really want to know what you all think, what you would have done the same or different and where you guys think this may be going.**

 **Now... REVIEWS:**

 **Marvelmyra: i really apologise about those editing errors. I must have overlooked them. The word unsaddle always felt weird but I just couldn't get dismount. Thank you! I can use that word now ?. And yes you're write. In the letter from Jon, I think I mentioned how he didnt sleep with a whore Oldtown. I meant Wintertown. Thank you again for the correction. Almost had a moment of Jon went south!? by accident there. Regarding how much inforation you woud tell Robb, I can do agree with you. Because Cat and Robb tend to "shoot first, ask later" it's a touch line to draw on how much they can be told. I'd want to warn them about the Boltons, but knowing them, they'd attack the Boltons first chance they got, which could leave other loyal Northern Houses wondering whether the Starks trust them, and if not, will they also end up like the Boltons. I think I personally would tell Cat not to arrest Tyrion. But then how to do that without implicating Jaime? You could always say Cersei did it, but that would he waging war on the Crown and brings us back to where we started in the original story anyway. Basically if stuck with Jon Snow or Daeny, things would be better. But Nadia's stuck with Robb, who unfortunately is entangled in a big politcal mess. And I think 2016bproved that politics is the messiest business to be in. In terms with what Nadia's doing, I'm not saying it's the best way or what should be done in that situation nor is it what I would do. It's just given her specific character, her attitude, attributes, strengths and flaws and all, this is the logical path to take. Unfortunately that path will take her into Hell... and hopefuly back.**

 **Now... onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

 **CATELYN**

A gentle smile curls its way onto her lips, a soft expression moulding past her stressed features. All because of the little child curled up under one of her nightgowns that she'd laid upon the bed. His tiny fists entangle themselves in the soft cloth. A little furrow between his brows and his silent babbling lips tell Catelyn that he's far faded into a world of dreams. Settling herself by his side, her heart warms as the six year old inherently shuffles his little body, drawing himself nearer to her, seeking her warmth.

She remembers how he'd done so as a babe, barely hours old. She'd been holding him, watching him rest on her stomach. Ned had been curled up on the bed by her side, holding Catelyn in his large, loving arms, sharing her post-partum heat, as she did with little Rickon.

The babe tilted his head, a little spatter of smooth auburn locks at his crown. Tully blue eyes blinked at her husband, as if blindly to ask, "Who is this great beast?"

They'd chuckled as he had yawned. Catelyn had gently patted his back, enjoying the touch of his smooth skin and his sweet newborn scent. She'd thought Rickon to become drowsy at that time. But no, the little welp had started squirming about on her. She'd made no move to assist him, then having been well-experienced from her four prior labours. His little arms, as light as pudgy little feathers, pulled his little weight. Up, up. She'd watched with such awe as he'd crawled to her breast and fumbled a few minutes before latching on himself.

Four pregnancies. Four births. Four beautiful, healthy children. And such a thing has never ceased to amaze her. His big blue eyes watched her carefully a moment, and she felt that kindling fire as she'd felt for Robb and Sansa, Arya and Bran.

Catelyn now recalls how Ned had left kisses down her temple, her neck and shoulders that night. She'd shrugged him off playfully, telling him he'd have to wait his turn.

Her lord husband had replied that once Rickon had his fill, she'd be his to claim again and again and again, his deep, throaty voice, husky and low doing cruel things to her body, as she'd felt the let down of her milk.

"Lady Stark," a voice cuts through her musings. Her fingers do not retreat from Rickon's curling locks, nor does her doting gaze, as she replies, "Ser Rodrik?"

"I've spoken to the stable boys."

"And your men?"

"Aye, my Lady. Many have expressed their concern for you, but I've informed them that you wish to not to waste Winterfell's resources for a short visit to your sister."

"Is everything else ready?"

"Yes my lady. I believe the Maester has settled a small supplies caravan with the kitchen hands. It's enough to carry us to the King's Road. We'll find an inn there."

"Good." As the silence befalls them, Catelyn must force her eyes away from Rickon. It hurts too much to know she'd be leaving him. After she'd only just gotten him back. She feels a fool for neglecting her youngest so; for allowing herself to wallow in such grief and self-pity for so long. "Ser, it's of utmost importance that no one knows the true intent of our leave."

"Aye, my lady. No one will know. I've assured it myself. And I doubt that Maester's so old yet to let his mind run away from him now," he finishes with a humoured grin.

Catelyn smiles gently, appreciating her friend's reassurance. "I know. I only worry. My children-"

"Will be fine, my lady."

Knock. Knock.

Catelyn and Ser Rodrik both glance at her closed chamber doors, the former alone knowing full well who waits beyond it. "I hope so," she mutters ominously.

Nodding to Ser Rodrik, the old knight takes his silent orders. Approaching the door, he swings it back to reveal their caller. Catelyn's view is partially obscured by his robust stature, but she can just about make out a flash of tawny brown skin, the likes of which is a rare sight in these Northern parts. Ser Rodrik shifts a little and she can make out a rather awkward smile on the girl's face, her expression schooled to appear quite calm, though Catelyn can see the nervousness bleeding through those dark mournful eyes.

The seasoned knight chances a curious glance over his shoulder at Cat, who in turn nods for him. Stepping to the side, he allows Nadia to enter the room, the girl muttering a soft, "Thank you," as she passes him.

Just as Ser Rodrik is about to close the door, Cat speaks up to him, "Thank you, Ser. That will be all."

He doesn't move a moment, pausing to throw her a bemused look. Raising her brows, the Lady implies wordlessly that she will be fine alone with this girl. Ser Rodrik still seems hesitant to leave. He gives Nadia one last assessment, just a mere once over, as if to establish she's not a threat and to intimidate her little. A warning. It lasts barely a second and then he's gone, leaving behind a polite pardon of his leave to both women.

Nadia waits a few seconds after the door has sounded shut, before slowly turning to face Catelyn. In those short few moments, and those prior to Ser Rodrik's leaving, the older woman has taken the time to observe the girl. Her clothes are… peculiar. And in Catelyn's opinion, a little inappropriate albeit unattractive in design. "It's a rare sight indeed to see a woman who dresses like a man," she teases a little, wishing to diffuse the girl's anxiety. Then as an afterthought, adds, "It reminds me of my youngest daughter, Arya."

Nadia can't help but glance down at her attire before matching Catelyn's gaze. Sheepishly, she replies, "Where I'm from it could be argued that I dress rather femininely."

The corners of Catelyn's lips quirk upwards at the comment. Eyeing Nadia's attire with a critical eye, she supposes she could see that; the shirt resembling a shortened camisole, exposing a fair amount of her chest, the jacket modestly covering exposed shoulders clinching at the waist neatly. An attire that accentuates the girl's assets… perhaps too well. Cat supposes women in Nadia's world are a little more risque, much like Dornish women. She appreciates that the girl has the decency to don a coat of some sort (although she'd be mad not to in cold such as Winterfell's).

Nodding her approval, she gestures to Nadia to follow her to the window.

Looking out over the main courtyard, Catelyn remembers how she'd spent over a year staring out this window, waiting for her new husband to ride through Winterfell's gates.

"You know, I detested Winterfell when I first arrived here," she tells the girl.

Nadia's eyes widen with surprise. "No," she half-gasps. Catelyn smiles, eyeing her sideways. "Why?"

"I was a stranger in a strange place, surrounded by strange people. Apart from Maester Luwin, I had not a single friend when I arrived. I detested the cold. Disliked the Northerners for their brash stoicism. I had to run a household that I knew nothing about.I had to wonder if I'd ever see my family again. My father especially. I worried almost every night whether my husband would return to me. Whether he would ever meet his son…" she drifts off a moment, her hand sliding over her smooth belly, fondly remembering a time when it had been swollen. How she'd worried for Robb. She remembers how he'd squirmed in her arms, making her so fearful that he would not survive the journey to the cool North. He had been a summer child but would be raised in a house of Winter.

Nadia's listening attentively, her expression filled with genuine intrigue. And perhaps a little apprehension. Catelyn has no doubt the girl is wondering where she's going with this, why she's summoned Nadia to her chambers.

At that very moment a soft snort is heard. Both women turn to look at the six year old curled up on her bed, each with fond smiles. Seems Rickon has been turning in his sleeping for he faces them now. He nuzzles his head against the sheets, tiredly tugging a pillows beneath his head before settling again without so much as a wink of his eyes.

Beside her Nadia shakes her head fondly at Rickon, unable to hide her amused grin.

"He's fond of you," Catelyn states, surprising the girl.

Looking back at him, Nadia answers, "He's a sweet kid. A little gentleman."

"I suppose he has to be when he's not attacking you with wooden swords."

Nadia looks bashful. Catelyn grins warmly. "He speaks of you often. Tells me you taught him a few games…" she trails off, insinuating it's a query.

Nadia nods, humming a little enthusiastically. "Just a couple of sports from my world. I mean I didn't tell him _that_ but-"

"I understand," Catelyn cuts her off, predicting the girl nay start babbling incoherently again. Nadia's sheepish look confirms this. "I must admit, I rather enjoyed having him teach me your sooker."

"Soccer," Nadia corrects. "Or football. Same thing," she shrugs biting her lip. Then brows furrowing, she asks, "You really enjoyed that?" Catelyn understands the incredulity. In truth she didn't enjoy being made to run around her own chambers, kicking a leather ball. However Rickon's laughter had made it all worth it. She tells the girl this. "I wonder though, where in the world did obtain a ball like that?"

Nadia replies with eyes grinning mirthfully, "After I told him about ball sports, he had your Maester commission it from a leathersmith."

The child's mother struggles to muffle her chuckles, but the grin remains broad at her lips. Looking on at her youngest with adoration only a mother could have, she imagines him confronting Maester Luwin in his chambers; little hands on hips, lips pouting, begging on the border of demanding the poor man to commission something for a game of passtime.

"I'm glad. I've not seen him so full of life in some time."

"Children are more resilient than we are," Nadia says after a moment of quiet. Her rasped tone is soft but clear, intoning deep thought by the expression of her face, looking over Rickon. "I've cared for kids with the most traumatic injuries, incurable diseases. I'm always amazed by their spirit. They manage to find light in everything." Again Nadia pauses. Catelyn notes the way the girl crosses her arms, bites her lip. "I remember being Rickon's age, like it was yesterday. The world was bright and happy and perfect. I felt like I could do anything. Be anyone."

Catelyn looks at the girl. Really looks at her. Wistful is Nadia's expression, remorseful, mournful. She understands the younger woman's words, having spoken truthful of enjoyed playing games with Rickon that day. Her children made her feels twenty years younger and older all at the same time. But it's a feeling Cat adores. To be carefree and silly and ignore the world's problems.

It had been so long since she'd spent such quality time with any of her children. To be able to have that with Rickon, with her youngest babe, whilst he's still so young and naive and innocent to the evils of the world - even if it was just for a day - was a blessing. And a memory she would cherish.

But the former Tully cannot ignore the growing put in her stomach. A large part of her fears what revelations her journey southward will bring. She'd spent the better part of the past two days in self-doubt, her indecisive mind and heart telling her two different things: stay or go.

And go she must.

Sometimes she wonders what would have happened had she not received Lysa's letter.

Rickon's soft snores are the only sound to permeate through the room. The two women settle into a comfortable quiet, simply watching the little boy sleep. Several minutes pass them by.

Despite every bone in her body telling her not to, Catelyn can't help but play back the night of the assassin's attack. "Nadia, I would like to ask something of you. I know I have no right, given I am already indebted to you-"

"Ask. I don't mind," the girl cuts off with a reassuring smile. The expression dulls dramatically by Catelyn's next words...

* * *

 **A/N: Please Review!:)**


	13. The Kick

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! So this is lucky number 13 and I'm really excited about this chapter because I get to throw a light on some of Nadia's old life and we get to see how she opens up a bit at this. Even more so, this chapter plays around with the "supernatural" a bit more, and that's something I really wanted to lay down through the chapters in my revision of this story. In my initial draft, I lost the plot of the supernatural underworkings in place of the love story, but now I'm really focused on the characters' journeys and hope the magic really ties into the story well.**

 **Now before we go to the story... REVIEWS!**

 **Guest: Okay, I've got to apologise for the slip up about the Vale being a "short journey". I think what I meant was that it was a "small journey", small meaning it's not of significance, and is a personal errand, thereby Catelyn hypothetically doesn't see the need to have a large entourage. It's a poor lie, but that's simply human nature. Whether or not the guards entirely believed Rodrik Cassel is a different story; I'm neither saying they do or don't. I'm simply pointing out the haste with which Catelyn decides to investigate the case of the attacks on Bran. As for the newborn crawling... I'm actually a training midwife, and newborn infants are in fact capable of crawling on their own to their mother's breast. It's an instinct all babies have to seek their mother's milk. It's actually why the areola darkens in pregnancy for most women, because it acts as a target for the baby's limited vision, sort of to highlight that this is where the nipple is. I can't speak for midwives in other countries, but here in Australia it's something we advocate to women to increase chance of successful breastfeeding. And before anyone comments, midwives are not hippies, we are actual medical professionals, basically like OBGYN but instead of advocating medical interventions at every step of the way like OBGYNs do, we advocate normal birth. If you ever do decide to have a third child, I recommend you try the breast crawl. It can take some time, but it is undeniably adorable and such an incredible bonding experience. There are plenty of articles on line that explain/support the "Breast Crawl" as well as youtube videos.  
Just to add to that, like I said, I'm a training midwife as well as a training nurse. So any medical/nursing language, discussion or reference with be 99.9% accurate, the 0.1% being medieval medicine that I am unfamiliar with and will be doing limited research on to support this story. **

**Daughter of the Lion: I'm glad you love this story. I'd love to have you as my Beta. I'll PM you on this a bit more.**

 **Marvelmyra: Warn Cat? Will she? Won't she? She definitely tells Cat something in this chapter... but what does she tell her exactly...? As for telling Robb, I can't promise anything. Nor can I about Tyrion. Only that Tyrion and Nadia's interaction will be interesting, to say the least. Or at least I hope it is, I'll strive for just that. And his short stay in Winterfell will not be the last time they cross paths.**

 **TMI Fairy: When I mention the four pregnancies, it's actually Catelyn reminiscing when she had just given birth to Rickon and at _that_ time was recalling her four pregnancies prior to him. I tend to do those flashback scenes quite a bit, especially and almost exclusively with Catelyn, but perhaps I should change the font for when I do so that it is clear. At the moment, I'm still getting used to the fact that posting chapters alters the font I had initially written with. But so far anything that is thought or written in a letter is italicised. And I suppose the same will go for flashbacks; they are after all just thoughts. Sorry about that confusion. And nope, no rugby. I don't know rugby rules. But I do pay homage to my lovely home of Melbourne, by mentioning the Melbourne Cup.  
** **I wanted to make Nadia's home, Melbourne Australia too (mainly because most characters I read about are either American or British and therefore "fit" into the culture of their stories). But guys, she's not broad. If you don't know what that means, google the three types of Australian accent. In my head, Nadia's got General which is like what Teresa Palmer or Hugh Jackman speak with. But I guess, interpretation is in the readers' mind, not the writer's.**

 **jean d'arc: Yes, I absolutely loved writing Catelyn's chapter. Hers are definitely my favourite, because I love trying to get inside her headspace. I find it a particular challenge, because we already know what she sounds and thinks like because she has her own chapters from the books. So I try not to emulate that so much because it would be like karaoke to Adele. I try to focus on Cat's emotions, maternal instinct and rationalise her thoughts, words and actions from there. I feel everything about Cat, is about rationalising and making sense of what's going on around her because; and I think it speaks loudly in terms of her relationship with Nadia. While she doesn't trust Nadia yet, I think Catelyn would understand the girl's circumstances and empathise for her while still holding herself aloof (as she did with Talisa and Jeyne), but the responsibility she's placing on Nadia is a test of her alliance and worth, and Nadia's actions could either strengthen or weaken their relationship. It will become obvious eventually, that there is more trust between these women than there is between Nadia and Robb though.**

 **I have some questions for all my lovely readers: 1) Why do you like this story? 2) What don't you like about this story and why? 3) Who's perspective have you enjoyed reading most and why? 4) Which other character/s perspective would you like to see in the future? 5) Season 7 is coming out this year, so where do you see Nadia at that point? Please answer in the reviews section, I'd really appreciate it.**

 **NOW... THE STORY CONTINUES...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **Nadia**

Lady Stark leaves in the night, under the cloak of darkness. The courtyard is bare, save for the small farewell party consisting of Robb, Rickon and Maester Luwin come to see off Lady Catelyn and Ser Rodrik. Much to her surprise, Nadia finds herself amongst those of the former - Catelyn had Maester Luwin call on her, politely apologising for waking her at so late an hour, perfectly oblivious to the fact that she'd been awake anyhow and would have stayed as such for several hours more. The reason as to why Catelyn wants to suffer her presence at something so private, remained a mystery not long. From the moment he saw her, little Rickon has been attached to her hip. The boy's face is drenched with tears; a sobbing mess has he been. His little body shakes with every sob and whine.

Nadia squeezes his hand gently, trying in vain to offer him some comfort from his distress.

Not far from where they stand, Catelyn runs a hand across her mare's neck, speaking in hushed tones with her eldest son. Taking Robb's face in her hands, she offers him some last words of wisdom, placing a kiss on his head. The moment seems so precious, that a sense of guilt bubbles at Nadia's core, for so much as looking on this moment between mother and son.

Though a few curious glances in their general direction revealed a very serious conversation.

A few glances in her direction, make her heart sink to her stomach with fear and anxiety.

As Catelyn finally moves away from him to Rickon, Nadia catches Robb's blue eyes. It's only a brief moment but even then, even with only the moonlight and torchlight to illuminate his face, those eyes of his seem to glow iridescent, boring into hers with indecipherable emotion. Nadia's quick to draw her gaze away.

Rickon launches himself into his mother's arms. He begs and begs Lady Stark not to leave. The sight breaks Nadia's heart, that she struggles to blink away her tears.

"Oh, my darling. I want to stay, Rickon, but I cannot. Don't fear, I'll be back before you know it," she finishes pulling away to tap his little nose affectionately. Upset, Rickon turns from her and buries his face into Nadia's side, refusing to look at his mother any longer. Quickly masking her hurt expression, Catelyn presses a kiss into his curly locks.

Reluctantly she pulls away from him. Nadia stiffens when Catelyn rises turning to her. Blue eyes search Nadia's own critically. Nadia nods, hearing her silent question. "I gave you my word."

Catelyn smiles gratefully. She lays a hand on Nadia's cheek. "Don't frown so much. Someone could be falling in love with your smile. And it is a beautiful smile."

She does smile softly, eyes dropping to her feet shyly. Catelyn steps back, ready to turn from her. Then Nadia's hand reaches out to grab her shoulder. In the older woman's eyes, Nadia can see the concern bleeding through her own expression. She parts her lips to speak but before any words can escape her, Catelyn cuts her off, knowing already what she wants to say. "I'll remember." The way the woman says those two words, does not placate Nadia as she'd hoped it would. Caution mixed with a scepticism, that at this point Nadia can't deny is warranted.

With Ser Rodrik's assistance Catelyn mounts her horse. Waving one last farewell, Lady Stark and her the seasoned knight depart from Winterfell, for what Nadia knows will be the last time.

The guilt stabs at her and she tries to push it down. Lifting Rickon into her arms, she passes by the others. The only sounds that follow her into the castle, is that of Rickon's muffled sobs and Shaggydog's feet padding along the stone by her side.

It's a fair walk, passing by the hall housing her own room, as Rickon's is located in the opposite wing, just down the hall from Bran's. Her arms full with Rickon, she leans back against his door getting it to budge open for her. Passing the short distance to his bed, Nadia bends down - ignoring the ache in her back that she knows she's far too young to have - laying the six year old; her hands come up to uncurl his arms from around her neck, which immediately tighten their grip. Sighing tiredly, Nadia lifts him back into her arms.

She sits with him on the bed, holding him until he just about cries himself to sleep. Careful, so as to not stir him, Nadia unwinds his arms from around her neck, laying him back slowly. She pulls the sheets over his small body and rises to leave but a small hand catches her own.

"Will you leave us? Will you go back home?"

Nadia opens her mouth to answer but no sound comes. Truthfully she has no idea. She's been studying the Convergence but is yet to find a way back. From what she's learnt, her odds seem slim. Like non-existent slim. "I don't think so." An uncomfortable silence settles between them.

"Is that why you always look so sad?" Rickon receives a bemused expression from her and equally exasperated ones from the boys. He ignores the latter. "Whenever I see you, you always look so sad." Nadia feels the sudden urge to wrap him in a blanket and serve him hot cocoa, because the look he's giving her is so much like that of a lost puppy. She might just die from how cute it is.

"Maybe," she says. "I guess I'm just getting used to this place."

"Do you want to go home? Do you want to leave us?"

Her lips part, a quivering breath escaping them, but no words to join. Her heart aches so badly to say, "Yes. Fuck yes, more than anything," but she the broken, desperate look on the six year old's face silences her. She can't give him the truth. So she rather not say anything at all.

Picking up that his question has unsettled the her, Rickon asks her a different question, "Sing me a song?"

Slowly a small, tired smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "I'm not a very good singer," she says with a shake of her head.

"Better than Jon or Robb," he rebuts, voice hoarse.

For a brief moment, Nadia grins at the idea of the two seventeen year old Alpha males singing their younger siblings to sleep.

Sighing dramatically, she sits on the edge of his mattress. Her brown fingers entwine themselves in his hair, playing with his bright curls.

"When the rain is blowing in your face

And the whole world is on your case,

I could offer you a warm embrace

To make you feel my love.

When the evening shadows and the stars appear

And there is no one there to dry your tears,

I would hold you for a million years,

To make you feel my love.

I know you haven't made your mind up yet

But I would never do you wrong.

I've known from the moment that we met,

There's no doubt in my mind where you belong.

I'd go hungry, I'd go black and blue.

I'd go crawling down the avenue,

O there's nothing that I wouldn't do,

To make you feel my love.

The storms are raging on the roads and seas,

And on the highway of regret.

The winds of change are blowing wild and free.

You ain't seen nothing like me yet.

I could make you happy, make your dreams come true.

No there's nothing wouldn't do.

Go to the ends of the earth for you,

To make you feel my love.

To make you feel my love."

Soft snores drift up to her ears, as she finishes. Still she waits a minute longer just to be sure. When she makes for the door, she finds her path blocked. Robb leans there, arms crossed, a sheepish look cast upon his face. Clearly he hadn't meant for her to catch him spying.

Mouth opening and closing a few times, he eventually finds his words, whispering, "Thank you."

Biting her lip, she whispers, "Your welcome."

He turns to the side, allowing her passage past him into the hallway. Thanking him softly, she squeezes past him, unable to keep her arm brushing his chest nor the electrified sensation that jolts her as she does so. Rubbing her arm bemusedly, she pauses in the hall outside, face tilted ever so slightly over her shoulder, waiting as he closes Rickon's chamber door, feeling it rude to walk away from Robb at this moment.

He faces her. The awkward silence makes her glance down the hallway, to her feet, to her hands, all the while biting her lower lip nervously that she has no doubts it will be sorely bruised the following morning. His voice calls her attention back to him. "May I escort you back to your chambers?"

Reluctantly nodding, she allows him to lead her out. They walk a few feet. But as they pass Bran's door, she stops and stares at it. Catching onto her action, Robb stills his movement also. "What is it?"

"Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

She narrows her eyes, tilting her head. She doesn't feel scrutiny or suspicion. More like a curious probe reaching out to her. A sensation of familiarity overwhelms her, just as it had when she'd bonded with Grey Wind. There's only silence for a moment. And then… "Wings," she whispers, eyes wide. It grows louder. Louder with every passing moment, as if the bird is drawing closer, closer, clos-

"Nadia?"

Robb's next to her. She stares at him wide-eyed. When had he gotten so close to her? She looks straight ahead to find herself barely a foot from Bran's door. She blinks. She glances about them. And then back to the door. Brown eyes roam over the wood.

No matter how hard she strains her ears now, the bird is gone.

A hand touches her shoulder, just barely. "Nadia, what is it?"

"It's nothing." Judging by his expression, he doesn't believe her. Rolling her eyes at this, she steps out of his reach, just, and elaborates, "It's nothing bad,"... she thinks. Seeming to accept her silence, not like he has much choice, the Stark heir pushes them on down the hallway, drawing her further away from this wing of the castle.

"What did my mother say to you?"

"What did she say to you?" From the corner of her eye, she catches his confused look. "What? You can ask me but I can't ask you?" Robb shakes his head then bites his lip - for the first time since she'd met him over three weeks ago. Sighing the girl reveals, "She told me to try smiling more often. Apparently I'm a bit of a downer," she jokes, though it does nothing to alleviate the awkwardness between them.

"I meant the other night. I heard she'd summoned you to her chambers."

Nadia's silent for a few moments, not knowing he'd known that.

"Nadia?"he stops them this time. "What did she say to you?"

"Why didn't you ask her this? She's your mother," she rebuts.

He gives her a look as if to tell her - no beg her - not to argue with him. It's then she looks at him, seriously looks at him for the first time in days, perhaps for the first time since she'd woken up in those dungeons. HIs ivory skin is marred only by the faintest purpling of sleepless circles beneath his cerulean eyes; his hair is tousled as if he's been running his hand through them far too much lately - whether from exhaustion or frustration or a mixture of both, she knows not. If it has anything to do with her, it's probably the latter though, she silently concludes. Pursing her lips, she closes her eyes and shakes her quickly, sharply inhaling through her nose.

"Your mum asked me to watch over you and your siblings."

Robb looks over her incredulously. "You? How?" Nadia raises her eyebrows at him, her arms crossing under chest as a sudden breeze passes over them from the open bannisters nearby. His eyes widen with realisation. "You mean... that."

"Yes that... my gift as she called it," she says with little air-quotations at the word gift.

Robb seems briefly confused by the gesture, but quickly picking on, insists, "It is a gift-"

"It's a curse. No nightmare. Actually no, I'm wrong. It's a series of nightmares that are bound to make my life far more uncomfortable and inconvenient than it already is."

The pair turn the corner into their shared hallway. "I thought you couldn't control your abilities."

"I can't. But I wasn't going to tell your mother that. Not after I promised I'd do my best to ensure the safety of her kids."

"Why would you do that?" he asks, just as they reach her door.

Nadia looks at him. Truthfully… she doesn't know why. How can she possibly prevent herself from accidentally interfering with fate if she becomes bound even more so to the Starks? She recalls being frozen, paralysed by the former Tully's words, caught in the older woman's penetrating stare. A small, selfish part of her wanted to say no to Catelyn. But the rest of her protested. Nadia had tried not to let her internal crisis show; she'd not wanted to look cruel, evil. She agreed, and not for the first time in her life wished she could have been a little more like Damon Salvatore (regardless that he is a fictional character).

But then maybe, just maybe, Lady Catelyn's grateful embrace had convinced her somewhat that she had made the right decision.

So now, when she's caught like a deer in headlights before Robb's curious gaze, equally the blue penetrating gaze of his mother but with a hardness and stoicity that Nadia guesses could be attributed to his father, the girl answers, "Because it was the right thing to do."

He stares at her silently. Studying her face. It takes extraordinary effort on Nadia's part to keep from fidgeting or pulling away.

"Even if that means interfering with fate?"

Nadia struggles for an answer. Seeing this Robb retreats from her. "Good night, Nadia." She watches him turn his back on her and head for his room. Inwardly cursing herself, she attempts to quickly slip into her room. His voice halts her though. "You wrong, by the way. You're a good singer."

Blushing she turns to thank him, but he's already disappeared into his chambers.

"... obstipation - that is severe constipation - nausea, polyuria, diarrhoea. There's also muscle weakness, abdominal and bone pain. Abdominal distension may be observed, and by palpation or auscultation you could possibly observe ileus paralysis-"

"Which could be the cause of the aforementioned constipation?"

"Possibly. Other symptoms of chronic hypercalcaemia include neurologic changes."

"Such as…?"

"Such as confusion, impaired memory, lethargy. Even coma. The condition has a fifty-percent mortality rate, most notably due to how quickly it can escalate to cardiac arrest."

"Reversible though?"

"Only if normal serum calcium levels are restored. Increasing fluids and sodium - table salt -, increasing ambulation…" Nadia trails off.

"And more management that our world is not capable of. Yet," the old man picks up where her thoughts have gone. He presses the word "yet" with a determined look. Nadia can see the cogs turning behind his wisened eyes. "I assume an ECG would also be applied here?"

"You assume correctly," she returns his grin. Turning her eyes back to the page before her, she assesses the sketch one last time before sliding it over to the Maester. "Trousseau's sign."

Maester Luwin stares at her diagram. "And this is achieved by your sphygmomanometer?" He nods at the instrument lying on his desk, off to the side. Nadia hums affirmatively. "Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. I would give anything, I think, to be able to see your world. Learn your science."

She returns his smile, albeit somewhat forlorn. "You and me both, Maester." He squeezes her shoulder comfortingly. It reminds her of the way Clare used to be with her. Her heart clenches; she hasn't even given a thought to how she'd never speak to her pseudo-grandmother again.

The sketch begins to blur before her eyes. Nadia brushes away the tears before they can fall.

"I believe it's time for my lessons, now."

If the good old Maester noticed her cover-up, he doesn't say anything, something for which she's grateful for. Maester Luwin has been avidly picking her brains on everything from science to religion, history to culture even some pop-culture. In return he's graced her with the opportunity to apprentice with him in healing. She recalls fondly how he'd shown up at her chamber doors, a pile of books on Westerosi healing and medicine and a stern but kind, "Follow me."

He's shown her how to brew several tinctures, essences and other naturopathic medicines, explaining when they're necessary, in what dosages and their effects. She, in return, would educate him on her world's Medicine. Quite often Nadia finds herself discussing and debating the medical ethics of her world with the old man, among other things.

In repayment of his enthusiasm and interest, she'd entrusted him with her nursing pack. It had been the very first set she'd bought when she'd been a first year in Uni. Much simpler than her third year set sitting in her apartment back home, this one consists of nothing more than a stethoscope, sphygmomanometer and fob watch.

When she moved out of her parents home, she'd forgotten it. When she'd returned there, the night of her disappearance, Stefan had found it in an old shoe box under her bed. She'd packed it, hoping to give it to her own kid, someday, should they show in an interest in the medical field.

Finding it in her duffel, thankfully undamaged by the fall, brought indescribable joy to the young woman. And once she'd told the Maester about them, he'd expressed avid interest to be able to recreate them. Hence why she allows him to hold onto them for the time-being.

As for their studies, they'd settled on a body system a day, discussing all she'd learnt in her nursing training so far, from anatomy and physiology to pathophysiology, nursing management and medical technologies even. Today though, she'd decided to change the lesson, discussing fluid and electrolyte regulation and management instead of the agreed renal system.

"Time for your lesson," he says excitedly, clapping his hands together. "Corroding and closing a wound. Hopefully you'll never have to use this."

'Doubtful. Very doubtful.'

After thirteen separate wounds and countless number of accidental self-inflicted burns - and just about the same amount of apologies for indecent language - Nadia could just about swear off pork for the rest of her life.

"Do all you Maesters practice on pig carcasses?"

"Of course. If we were lucky enough, we'd have an actual patient to observe. But it seems cruel doesn't it that our luck should come at someone else's expense."

"I agree," she says over her shoulder, carefully finishing her final stitch on her own hand. The old man carefully takes it in his, examining her handiwork. Peering up at her from beneath furrowed brows, he quips, "Perhaps someday Winterfell could look forward to its first female Maester. The first female Maester anywhere. "

"As honoured as I'd be, I've spent my whole life studying only to fall short of where I wanted to be. Being stuck here makes me feel like I've wasted all those years. Plus I don't think I could swear off men," she adds cheekily.

"I think you should be safe on that front. Our vows only ask we swear off women," he chirrups, matching her grin. "So you want to have a family?"

Nadia shrugs. "I've always wanted to start a family someday but... I'm not from here. If I thought finding a boy crazy enough to love me was hard before, well now it's impossible."

"Why do you say that?"

"For one, I'd have to lie to him about who I am or else he'll think I'm psychotic. And a relationship based on lies won't have a happy ending. Besides, I can't pretend to be some girl from Dorne or the free cities. Holding onto who I am is all I have left of my old life." A silver jug sits on the shelf across her, reflecting a faint twinkle. Her thumb brushes over her index, feeling the roughened surface of the diamonds there. A sad smile makes it's way onto her face.

She feels the Maester's aged eyes observing her character. Softly he speaks, "So what is it you want?"

Shaking her head, she turns from him, cleaning up her work station. "I don't know. To live, I guess." Sarcastically, she adds, "Didn't I end up in the right place for that." Biting her lip, Nadia winces realising all but too soon what she's implied. Biting her lower lip, she observes him carefully from beneath her lashes. He's not ignorant to the weight of her words and, judging by his expression, wants to question her about it. But he seems to decide against it, instead asking her to help him with a new preparation today.

"What's this one for?"

"A powerful sustenance potion. Used to treat comatose patients. Their purpose is somewhat similar to your parenteral infusions."

Nadia pauses a moment, watching him gather the ingredients, her face visibly drawn sombre - or at least more so than usual. "For Bran?" she eventually asks?

"Aye, my girl."

"How long has it been?"

"Too long. But he's still alive. It's something. Now… hand me the mistletoe. We'll need to make a diluent extract of it first…"

Several hours and a lengthy discussion that could at best be described as an analysis of the occult and supernatural of their respective worlds (all myth or hypothetical, of course) later, and the preparation is just about ready. Stirring in parchment-centrifuged stag's blood, Nadia pours the advised dose into its vial. Corking it, she passes it to Maester Luwin. Rather than take it from her, he holds out a capped needle, which she accepts bemusedly, saying, "You see that Bran gets it."

She stares at him incredulously. "Me?"

"Yes. And while you're there assess his condition. I'd like to hear your diagnosis of it," he goes on nonchalantly, completely ignoring her shock; going to his other desk, he places her sphygmomanometer and stethoscope into a satchel, before returning to hand it to her.

When her dark eyes flicker between his face and the satchel, silently questioning if this is a trick, he raises a brow. "Well? Hop to it, girl."

Reaching Bran's room, Nadia is surprised to find Theon there. Just as surprised by her presence, he questions, "What are you doing here?"

"Maester Luwin sent me."

"Does he need something?" he asks walking over to her from where he'd been leaning at the window watching over Bran.

"No. He - er - he wanted me to check on Bran and give him this," she pulls the vial from her satchel. Theon eyes her carefully. "Got you apprenticing for him, eh?"

"Yea-yes," she stammers as he steps dangerously close to her a moment, expression hard. She gulps, a tremor of anxiety running through her.

"Alright then," he says casually, giving her space. "I'll leave you to it." He's gone before she can reply, not that she actually has a reply. Shaking it off, she moves to Bran's side, settling on the edge of his bed. Nadia uncorks the vial, careful to spill a single drop of its contents, then rifles through her satchel for the needle; finding it, she uncaps it carefully, then places it inside the vial, drawing up the potion. Certain that not a drop remains, she draws back Bran's sleeve, tightening the tourniquet already there. Finding her desired entry vein, the young woman slowly inserts the needle, injecting its contents intravenously. Cleaning away the little blood that coalesces from the site, she covers back Bran's arm and proceeds to assess the child.

Heart rate: a little on the slow side, but strong and regular. Blood Pressure: One hundred and one over seventy six. From touch and appearance alone, he doesn't seem to have a temperature. His lungs sound perfectly fine, no sign of stridor or other restriction and/or obstruction that broken ribs could have caused. She can feel where the fractures have more or less healed, only angry bruises remaining in the surrounding tissue. He's perfectly alright. Save for being in a coma.

The whole procedure lasts the standard forty-five minutes. Glancing at the door, Theon is yet to return. Nadia's eyes pour over Bran's face. She's not comfortable leaving him alone; and if Maester Luwin really is adamant to receive her word, then he would come and get her. Lowering her satchel to the floor, she crosses her legs, shifting to make herself more comfortable on the edge of the bed. As if by instinct, her tanned fingers find themselves entangled in Bran's dark auburn hair, as they do Rickon's.

Thith-thith-thith.

The flutter of wings.

Just like she'd heard the other night. Exactly as she'd heard the other night. Nadia looks out the window, expecting to see some species of bird has planted itself there. But she doesn't see a bird. She doesn't even see the window. In fact, looking about herself now, she sees nothing reminiscent of Bran's room, the boy included. She's not sure where she is. It's not any place she's ever been. But there's something familiar about it. A forest. A wood of sorts.

A sweet scent tells her there'd a body of water up ahead. Picking across the light undergrowth, Nadia emerges from its shadows upon a little clearing. At it's heart - a lake.

"This. Is. Weird," she announces to herself. It's quiet. Too quiet. And then she hears it. Those wings. Her eyes soar to the thick canopy, searching for the bird. Nothing.

No.

Not nothing.

She sees a wall. A great stone wall. Her feet lead her back through the trees, with some hesitation, towards that wall. Because a wall means buildings. And buildings mean people. If she's lucky she might be back on Earth… but she's never been lucky.

Passing out of the treeline, something soft crunches beneath her feet. It takes her eyes a moment to adjust the brightness and when they do, well…

"Snow?" She whispers staring at the blanketed landscape; snowflakes float gently from grey skies above. Like she thought. Weird.

The stone structure ahead reveals itself to be Winterfell. It looks the same but also different. Haunting. Sad.

Trudging through the snow, she passes under the stone arch. Nadia lets her feet lead her through the castle grounds, her kind struggling to reconcile what she sees now with the Winterfell she's seen awake. The further she goes the more familiar things look, and yet she feels increasingly more displaced.

Thith-thith-thith.

Caw-caw.

No bird in sight.

Nadia turns into the courtyard. She comes to a standstill.

The sight before her is of a massive tree, ancient by the looks of it. Its evergreen leaves seem to dust off the falling snow as the twirl senselessly in the windless space.

Caw.

Her eyes peel to her left. Perched upon the steps leading up into Great Hall, is a raven. She tilts her head curiously at the slippery critter. Its head turns to her.

Three eyes.

She blinks. It blinks. Then it flies. She tries to follow it with her gaze but it disappears. As if made of smoke. Not only that, but the great weirwood that had dominated the courtyard only seconds ago, is now also gone. In its place, a wolf.

No. A direwolf.

Silvery grey fur glistens in the winter sun, a light dusting of snow peppering its back. Golden eyes stare back at her. Nadia feels her feet are frozen to the spot, despite wanting to run away from the wild beast. But there's something about it. Something that reminds her of Shaggydog and Grey Wind.

Slowly the beast approaches her, pawing at the ground with every step. When its a mere foot from her, it pauses. Tilting its head, the direwolf's eyes stare up at her, giving Nadia the odd sense of curiosity coming from it. She crouches where she is, Nadia never leaving that penetrating yellow gaze. Slowly it raises a paw. Her eyes narrow briefly at the action, before her expression is overcome with a awe. Smile tugging at her lips, she carefully takes the offered paw in her hand, accepting the gesture of greeting.

And then it hits her. A flurry of hushed voices . All with one name.

"Bran?"

The creature pulls away from her, his head turning to the sky.

"No wait-"

He howls. A painful, bellowing sound that sends splinters of pain through the young woman's head. She clasps her head, trying in vain to tune out the noise but the howl only grows louder with every passing second.

And the louder it gets, the more pain she feels. His pain. His frustration. His confusion. Rattling her bones like an erratic marcca.

"Stop," she begs. But the beast does not. "Bran, stop! Please!

Thith-thith-thith.

Caw. Caw.

The incessant crow joins him, their combined melody from hell. It's chaotic. It's madness. And she feels herself being pulled under further and further, forced to endure their pain.

"Stop!"

It's too much.

Too much.

The howls. The wings. The caws. The voices.

"Wake up," she whispers, unsure if it's meant for herself or Bran. Her hands grip her head so tightly, she could just as easily break it. "Wake up." Warm, sticky liquid trickles drown her fingers and arms. Iron-scented. Blood. "Wake up!" she screams. "Just wake up! It's just a dream, okay. So wake up! Wake up! WAKE UP!"

A sensation overcomes her. The feeling of being weightless before gravity gets a hold of you. Like a chair being kicked out from beneath her. The feeling of falling.

She kicks. She lashes. Keeps screaming.

A loud deafening scream that could shatter glass.

"Nadia!"

She screams and screams.

"Stop! Stop struggling woman!"

And screams.

"Nadia wake up!"

Dark eyes fly open. The scream dies on her lips. For a long second, she's just frozen in space, mouth agape. And then she gasps - a sharp, deep breath in. Her body trembles. And that's when she's sitting on the ground, a pair of strong arms restraining her from behind. Slowly she turns her head to meet a worried, perturbed and shocked mossy gaze. "Nadia?"

The Ironborn's voice is like white noise behind the pounding in her head. The howl. The voices. They're still there. Echoing loudly inside her head. She screws her eyes shut, wincing visibly at the headache they cause her.

Theon shakes her a little roughly. "What happened? What the hells were you doing?"

"I-" she winces. Swallowing, she slowly begins again, "I was outside. And there was snow. A-and a tree. A big tree. It didn't-it didn't-"

"Didn't what?"

She shakes her head. Her own screams of "wake up" joining the fray inside her head. "A wolf. A-a direwolf. It-but it wasn't. Bran. He was-it was-they were-"

"Bran? What about Bran?" Theon pushes. "Dammit woman, answer me?" If her mind isn't so fried at the moment, she'd actually commend him for showing the boy some concern.

"Bran," she whispers. "He-"

"Theon?"

The exhausted voice that calls his name isn't hers. It's a young boy's. But it's not Rickon.


	14. What's my next move?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers!**

 **Now... REVIEWS...**

 **jean d'arc: Yes, you're right that was Bran at the end! Yay! I'm afraid to say we don't get to see him much in this chapter, but there is still plenty of Rickon cuteness (because I think Rickon is a very underappreciated character; which sucks cos he's so cute). It's not entirely farewell... just so long for now...**

 **marvelmyra: hi there! First id like to say u have my empathy, i know what it's like for the internet to turn on us no matter how many hours we've dedicated our attention towards it. Love is cruel that way. Secondly, i have to apologise for the "crawl" issue. You are right, babies sorta inch their way up mum's chest to latch onto breast, kinda pulling their little bodies uo themselves. It's not a proper crawl, but the term for this "event" is known as the "breast crawl" and for lack of better word, it is a crawl of sorts. Not the crawl you would see toddlers do before they can walk, but am immature form of it. I apologise for any confusion I may have caused with my wording. I was only trying to be medically accurate. And a sphygmomanometer is a blood pressure cuff and pump. Nadia has the portable hand type, as most nursing students would.**

 **Before we move onto the story, I would like to thank Daughter of the Lion for beta-ing for me. THANK YOU!:) Now onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. Those are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **ROBB**

'Dear Jon,

I can't begin to tell you how mad everything has gotten since you've left. I could really use your stark clarity now. My mother has left. I cannot say why. Not because you do not have my trust - you know I trust no other more than you - but because I cannot trust that this letter will not be intercepted by others.

All I can say is, I miss you. And I need you here. I need you to help me make sense of all this. But I respect that you have chosen your path. And I have mine. I just hope that those paths will cross some time in the future. Hopefully soon.

I apologise for sounding so vague and morose. Perhaps I get that from you, brother. On to happier things. Bran has awoken. He-'

At this Robb stills his writing hand. What can he say about Bran? Pale cheeks, sunken eyes, messy hair. That is the image that comes to mind when he thinks of the lad. Robb had been so ecstatic when Theon had informed him, that he'd not cared that he'd run to his brother's chambers like a madman. All he could think of was getting to Bran, holding the young boy in his arms and thanking the gods that he's awake and well. Robb had not even questioned the raven-haired woman hugging herself in the corner of the boy's room. Nor had he thought to stop her when she crept out. His only focus had been Bran.

But then he saw the boy.  
Perhaps it was foolhardy to think he'd see his brother's bright-eyed smile when he walked through the door. Robb almost expected the boy to leap into his arms. Then Bran's blue-grey eyes dropped to his blanket, burning holes into what lay beneath. That's the moment he knew he knew. It cut him like Valyrian steel. But the pain didn't end there.

"I'd rather be dead," he'd said. No mincing words. No looking to his feet - his crippled feet. Bran had meant it. Heartbroken Robb had no other choice but to leave the moment Bran buried himself in his sheets, silently dismissing him.

Now writing his brother, he feels stretched in so many directions. Winterfell, Bran, the Lannisters, Nadia. Whichever way he turned, he was being confronted with some problem or another.

Putting pen to paper, he continues… 'Bran is tired. You would think after all that rest he wouldn't be. But the Maester puts it down to lack of nutrition and proper sleep. I wouldn't know. But I suppose we'll have to trust a wise man's words.'

Robb pauses again. Ever since his little trip to the Bifrost, he'd wanted to tell Jon. But he'd not been able to find the right words. Still hasn't. But perhaps Jon could offer some wisdom. At the very least, how to deal with the confusing woman.

'There's something I want to tell you. There's a girl. Not like that. Though knowing you, your mind wouldn't jump to that conclusion as Theon's would. Speaking of Theon, the swine misses you. Every other day he keeps badgering me about paying a little visit up there, just to see that your cock hasn't frozen off yet. And to kidnap you and bring you back to Winterfell. I supposes he misses all those pranks you both used to play on father's guards when I'm not around. I don't know how neither of you have not been caught yet.

It seems I've gone off point. The girl. She's, well, I'm not sure how to describe her. Unusual. Special.'

Supernatural.

'I'm afraid you wouldn't believe me if I told you. But let's just say, she has this gift ability. An incredibly ability, that could be useful. It could help people. But she's afraid of it. And she's afraid to let me anyone help her.

More importantly. with everything going on, she knows a lot more than she lets on. It makes me wonder if I can trust her.

I don't know what to do. All this responsibility, it's been cast on me too quickly, too soon. I need your help, Jon. I need your advice.

Sincerely,

Your blood brother,

Robb.'

He reads over the letter. Once. Twice. Just looking at it, he feels that Jon might think he's crazy. But then again, Jon's never been one to doubt him. Since they were babes, they've always been each other's rock. They'd learned together. Trained together. They are not just brothers. They are friends.

Robb rolls up the parchment and binds it to the leg of raven. "To Castle Black," he instructs the bird, watching it soar out the window.

Exiting the Raven Tower, the young lord strolls along the grounds, greeting servants and labourers as he goes. "Robb," a familiar voice calls.

"Silas," he turns, greeting the man. The young knight is not much older than himself, standing equal in height to Robb. He does not share the pale skin of Northerners, rather carries the tone of a man who's spent his life upon the beachside, a trait that is attributed to his estranged Tyroshi mother.

The grim expression he carries prompts Robb to ask, "What is it?"

Quent has only one word: "Wildlings."

"Where?" Robb says, his voice immediately dropping into what Theon jests his 'lording voice'.

Quent presents a letter. "Northern border of the Wolfswood. Lord Glover says an encampment of his troops were laid siege to."

"Thirteen?" Robb reads.

"Those are the ones who didn't survive. He says a few escaped. Last his men saw of them, they were reading south and east."

"Towards Winterfell," Robb surmises, rolling up the scroll. "Have three patrols sent out. Two to the woods, North and West. The third on the outskirts of the castle and Wintertown. And send word to Lord Tallhart."

"Aye, my lord," Quent nods respectfully. Robb frowns a moment. A sad grin tugs at his lips, then, as he slaps the young knight on the shoulder. "Silas," he begins, grin a little wider. "No titles. We've known each other since we were boys."

Quent seems a little confused by this, as if considering whether or not it would be appropriate. An easy grin then finds its way onto his face. He replies, "I believe you mean to say since you were a boy. I've always been a man."

Chuckling Robb pats the man's shoulders and sends him on his way.

He then takes a moment to think over their conversation. He'll be sure to warn the villagers to avoid the Wolfswood the next few weeks. At least until he's certain those runaway wildlings are dealt with.

Tully blue eyes fall on the tower to the far side of the castle. Part of Robb wants to turn around, and return to the comfort of his chambers. But even greater part coaxes him to go on. To go back to the place where everything fell apart.

The stairwell of the Broken Tower is just as fitting. Stone steps that are pitted, crumbling. They're about as stable as the tower walls that Bran had once been so fond of scaling. He's second guessing the venture with every step. Robb doesn't see what he could reap from this. Perhaps clarity, like his mother had. Perhaps a clue, something she had missed.

What as a Lannister doing up here?

What had been so scandalous that they saw it fit to throw a ten year old out a window?

He reaches the final landing. The door is already ajar.

She's standing at the window, staring down at the ground. A cold gust blows into the bleak room and Robb watches the shiver curl its way up her spine. Not for the first time, he wonders about her choice of attire: a thin shirt and pants and nothing else. Would it not be simpler for her to conform and wear some thicker clothes and furs? Despite this, she's managed to hold herself quite well most of the time. Apparently the cold doesn't bother her. Then there's also the issue of her decency… but Robb's not going to touch that or else risk Theon's crude jesting.

From the corner of her eye she sees him, turning to better look at him.

"Hi."

"Hello."

She bites her lip, glances at the ground a second, before asking, "How's Bran?" Nadia traps him in her curious gaze, a hint of concern lurking in those dark depths. Perhaps she already knows what was exchanged between the two brothers. It wouldn't surprise him. Running a hand through his hair, Robb sighs, his gaze leaving her to look about the dusty room. "He's exhausted if you'd believe it."

"Well given the fact he hasn't had a solid meal in weeks, it's understandable he'd be feeling lethargic... and you meant that rhetorically, didn't you?" she bites her lips sheepishly, catching his bemused expression. "Just give him time. Does he know?"

It irritates him that she asks a question that she already knows the answers to. Yet, he schools his frustration as his father had taught him. Cooly he replies,"Not yet, I think. I didn't get the chance to ask." Nadia nods, a thoughtful look on her face, she returns her gaze to the window. Again he has the urge to ask her who did it. But things are still uncertain between them. He's made an effort to be more accommodating, especially given how taken Rickon is with her and even his mother apparently. Yet still Robb can't help but feel he can't fully trust her. Not yet anyway.

Moving closer to her, Robb asks, "What are you doing here?"

She shrugs. "Just felt like it. You?" There's more to it, he reckons. But if Robb's learnt anything, it's that getting this woman to talk is like trying to get blood out of a stone.

His eyes follow her gaze out the window. Endless skies and rolling hills stretch beyond the horizon. It's almost hard to believe that somewhere beyond that, is the sea and the free cities. Foreign lands he's heard in stories; lands he'll probably never see. Robb's gaze then drops. Below them are the Winter woods, and beneath their bare branches is the cold, hard ground. His fists clench on the sill, so hard his knuckles blanch. When he speaks, he does so with an edge to his tone. "This is the first time I've come up here... I needed to see."

The Stark can feel her dark eyes boring into the side of his face. Yet he dares not look. Suddenly something cool presses lightly against his right hand. Resting there, is her own hand. Icy to the touch, yet exuding a soothing warmth. Despite himself, Robb finds he relaxes at her touch.

He almost expects her to say something. Offer some words of comfort at the very least. She doesn't though. It simultaneously infuriates and gratifies him. He wants to be assured everything will be alright. But as the Lord of Winterfell and heir to the North, he can't keep trying to live in a false uncomplicated reality. Winter is Coming; Robb can feel it in his bones.

The very presence of the woman next to him, says as much. Though she's never explicitly revealed anything to him - much to his chagrin - Robb knows deep down that things will get much, much worse before he'd be allowed to imagine them getting better.

"Lady's coming back to Winterfell," she says, raspy undertones thick with concealed emotion.

"Lady? Sansa's direwolf?" Robb gasps. "How?"

"I'll spare you the bloody details. Just know that Joffrey's a prat. Your father carried out the execution... it was mercy."

Another reason to hate the Lannisters. Good, this would make killing them easier. His face then furrows in confusion, realising one very important fact. "When did you know?"

"This morning." She crinkles her nose then adds, "Hallucination. Not very pleasant to imagine yourself bathing in blood."

"I'll remember that... Is that why you were quiet at breakfast? You could have said something."

Molten brown eyes look at him as if he's lost his mind. "I was a little distracted trying to keep my food down. You try eating with the image of a decapitated animal sharing your bathtub," she says a little patronisingly.

Wincing guiltily, he apologises. Nadia accepts it with a shake of her head and a quirk of her lips. She doesn't mention throwing up her breakfast in the alley, a fact he makes note of. He feels guilty for not approaching her then, when he'd seen her. In fact he's been avoiding her; that is, he's been avoiding her more so than usual, ever since Theon explained to him the state he'd found her in the night Bran emerged from his coma. Thinking back to how she'd been entranced her first night in Winterfell, and then again the night his mother left, Robb doesn't like thinking that his ten year old brother may be connected to her occult oddities in any way.

Eying her curiously a moment, he almost considers inquiring but at the last second decides against it, instead asking, "What's a prat?"

"A right royal prick with his head shoved so far up his ass, he thinks he shits gold."

Robb honestly can't help the ungentlemanly snort. He'd never met a woman so crass. Unfortunately, he realises Theon might get along with her rather well. "Aren't you the poet."

Using a mock-imitation of his accent, she quips, "You honour me with your compliment, my Lord. Shall I write a song for you?"

"As long you promise to sing it for me." The flushing red of her cheeks causes him to smirk. He realises then how truly embarrassed she was to be caught singing. Even more so than he was to be caught listening.

Nadia returns to her normal voice. "Yeah... not gonna happen."

"Shame. You have a lovely voice."

"I'm afraid we're just gonna have to agree to disagree." Gnawing her lower lip nervously, Nadia avoids looking at him.

"Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?" he leans forward, his tone a little suggestive. He means to tease her, unable to help the part of him that loved to charm pretty girls from rising to the surface a little. But Nadia carries a guarded expression, her face betraying nothing save for a little flustering. "No," she replies tone hard. Suddenly his hand feels lighter; he realises she's only just removed her own from his. "I should go. I, um... Maester Luwin wanted to discuss his work with me... um yeah..."

Robb frowns a little, watching her begin to retreat from the tower room. "Wait!" he calls out as she reaches the door. Robb slips his cloak from his shoulders. Stepping up to Nadia, he drapes it around her, fixing the straps, not letting his eyes drop anything more than inch down her chest to where he may or may not have a very good vantage point. Finishing the final strap, he steps back from her, clearly noticing the awkward shift in tension. "Now I can sleep with good conscience knowing you won't entirely freeze to death. Winter is Coming."

Slowly but surely, a tiny grateful smile crawls onto her face. She tries to hide it by pursing her lips but her dimples betray her. "Thank you," she whispers, leaving him alone to wonder what just happened.

Sighing Robb props himself against the dusty wall. Distantly he hears her greet someone, a playful tone to her voice. What's followed is a flurry of feet bounding up the rickety staircase. Grey Wind appears through the door, his topaz eyes boring into Robb's. An eager expression on his face, he drops the stick onto his master's lap. Robb raises a brow.

"Alright. You win."

* * *

The sun has long since sunk; it's which had rays stretching along the western horizon, painting the skies in rustic hues of orange and pink, long since faded to night. Robb tries to remember the last time he was able to sit like this and enjoy what the world has to offer, when there's no duties or conspiracies or mysterious girls. He knows it must only have been weeks ago, yet his mind cannot recall the memory of it.

A wet snout nudges his hand. Grey Wind cocks his head, yellow gaze curiously flickering between Robb and the castle. Sighing, the Stark boy fondles the beast's ears. "I suppose you're right. Can't hide out here forever."

They reach the castle just as night falls. Robb considers retiring early before Theon can convince him into paying the tavern a long overdue visit. He's stopped in his tracks by the sound of laughter drifting from the tiltyard. "Grey Wind," he orders, curiously following the trail of chuckles.

He arrives in time to see Theon standing between a pair of posts, hands out to the side. Ten metres out from the Ironborn, Rickon drops down a leather ball. The girl - Nadia - watches on from the side, her back to Robb, blissfully unaware of his presence. Her eyes are focused on the six year old who's lining up the ball. "This is it," she says with a playful seriousness about her. "Rickon has given his heart into the game, but can the young champion defend his title? He lines up the ball-" Rickon steps back some feet from the ball, his young eyes tracing an invisible line from the object to his foot; he quickly starts closing the distance… "-he goes for the ball-" Rickon kicks the ball, "-he shoots-"... and the ball slides perfectly over Theon right shoulder, the Ironborn coming short of tripping into the dirt to stop the round projectile. "And he scores!" Nadia cheers, raising her arms above her heads excitedly, jumping even. Rickon lets out a triumphant wail, running about in circles with his arms spread-eagled. So enthused is the little one, that he even lifts his shirt over his head and continues to run about, Shaggydog yapping happily behind him.

Despite rolling his eyes, the Ironborn still carries an amused look, shaking his head with silent laughter from where he leans against a post.

"What's going on here?"

Rickon slows down in his running, peeling his shirt off his face. Still wearing a big grin, he runs straight into Robb's arms, the older man easily lifting him up onto his hip. "I won!" the little one cheers.

Robb raises a brow. "Won what?"

"The game. I won, Robb! Again! Nadia says I could be a football champion, where she's from."

"She does, does she?" he turns his curious eyes onto the girl in question, who backs away from his gaze, going all sheepish all of a sudden. She's blushing wildly, but he puts it down to exhaustion of her running about with his highly energetic baby brother. He notes that she's shed his cloak and can't help but feel a little put out by it.

Theon comes up to him, slapping him on the back. There's a cheeky glint in his friend's eye that feels Robb with suspicion. "And what were you doing?" he questions the Ironborn.

"I was curious about their little game. Thought I'd give it a try. Get to know our guest a little better," Theon replies, tone suggestive that he's not impressed with Robb's own efforts - or lack thereof, to get the girl talking. Robb narrows his eyes. Theon returns it with a challenging look hidden behind a wall of horseshit innocence.

"Robb," Rickon steals his attention again. "Will you play a game with us? And it's more fun with more people. Besides, Nadia's getting very predictable with her plays-" the comment earns a presumptive hey from the aforementioned woman, but Rickon waves her off, much to Robb and Theon's surprise, though thankfully she doesn't seem annoyed by it. Not truthfully annoyed, but more forced as if for teasing purposes.

"We'll see," he tells Rickon. This does not please the young boy, for his eyes grow wide and his lips start to quiver.

Robb breaks. "Alright. Fine. I promise."

Rickon cheers, jumping down from Robb's arms and grabbing his hand to pull him along. "Come on-"

"Uh, uh, uh," Nadia cuts of the six year old. "Not now. Now is bed time."

"But-"

"No."

"But, but-"

"I promised your mother."

"But I'm not sleepy," Rickon yawns. Nadia's lips quirk, her face sceptical. "He said sleepily," she teases. Pouting his brother turns to him and Theon for support. How Robb loathes that pout. Being the eldest child, he'd faced the brunt of that bloody pout for fourteen years, ever since Sansa was born. Given the months' difference between himself and Jon, he never found his half-brother, a pout like that would have earned a good socking. Their siblings, on the other hand, learnt quickly how easily they could manipulate himself and Jon. All with this one lip-quivering expression.

Theon sighs behind him, also unable to bear the pout.

Turning his Tully eyes on Nadia, he can see she's barely hiding her amusement at their brotherly exchange. "I think he can stay up a little while longer."

She purses her lips a few seconds, then nods, turning to Rickon. "Fine, but you'll just have to spend all of tomorrow having your lessons with Maester Luwin."

"Why?" Rickon squeaks.

"'Cause I'll be too tired to wake up tomorrow. At all."

"But-"

"Yaknow what? I think I see him. You guys go ahead and start, I'll just pop over and let the Maester know that Rickon's eager to spend the day with hi-"

Robb can't imagine he's ever seen any man run so fast, let alone his six year old brother. With a shout of "Goodnight," Rickon disappears from their sight.

Both men turn back to the woman carrying an expression so smug it could rival Theon's. "What?" she asks innocently.

"Got a remedy like that for getting girls to leave after a good fuck?" Trust Theon Greyjoy to say something inappropriate to damper the mood. Especially in front of a woman.

"Theon!" he berates. The older man simply shrugs, innocently asking, "What?"

Before he can reply, Nadia cuts him off, seemingly knowing what he is about to say, "Relax Robbiekins. We talk pretty crass where I'm from… just not in front of the parents."

He stares at her a moment. 'Did she just call me...'

"You told her that!?" he turns on his friend.

"And that shall be my cue to leave." Jumping, Theon backs away quickly, bowing ever so slightly, "Nadia, pleasure talking to you. Robbiekins-" he dodges just in time to avoid the stone thrown at his head, ducking out with one last wink at Nadia.

When Robb's attention turns back on her, she's trying and failing to keep herself from laughing. "I'm sorry," she manages between chuckles. "I just couldn't help myself. It was way too funny."

"It was far from amusing. You weren't there," he replies. A surge of heat fills his cheeks at the memory of Lord Forwood's daughter. They'd been only ten and four at the time and it was his name day. She'd been rather deluded with the idea of marrying him, constantly at his side everywhere he went, defensive whenever someone else wanted to spend time with him, even giving him that horrific pet name. When he didn't return her affection - infatuation rather - she went so far as to lock him in his room and tried to seduce his manhood out of him. If it weren't for Jon kicking in his door, Robb's sure he'd be bound down by now. What can he say, he's only a man, and she was beautiful, albeit airheaded. Theon never let him live that down, especially since the sign of his arousal lasted longer than it should have. His poor mother couldn't look at him for a week.

Nadia observes him, a sceptic expression upon her face. "Really? According to Theon, you enjoyed it a little too much."

Feeling the need to defend himself, he quips, "So if a man were to take you against a wall, touch you intimately the way she did me, you're telling me you wouldn't react?"

She stutters initially, rouge inflaming her dimpled cheeks. Dropping her gaze from his, she softly rasps, "Okay one, it would depend on the man. Two, if there's one thing I'd rather not disappoint my parents on, it's staying a virgin till I'm married. And three, that scenario would never happen anyway."

He tilts his head. "Why not?"

Brown eyes flash up to his. She doesn't speak for some time, so he finds himself getting lost in those dark depths. It's then he realises her eyes aren't completely black, rather there are flecks of brown throughout them but only if you look close. They're sad eyes too, downturned at the corner, giving her an air of constant sadness.

Slowly her lips part to speak, but is interrupted by Grey Wind whining at his side. Smiling softly down at the welp, she scratches behind his ears. "Looks like your direwolf wants to go to bed."

Her tone is polite but Robb can hear the directive suggestion; she's dismissing him from her presence.

"Perhaps I can escort you back?"

There's a brief flicker of genuine offence in her expression but it's gone all too soon for Robb to process it. Smiling behind pursed lips, she informs him that she's no damsel in distress, "... I can take care of myself." And despite the things he's seen of her - the crying, the screaming, the near-drownings, the nightmares that would make any other person go off their head - he doesn't doubt her. "It's not for your sake," he tells her.

"Then why bother?" she asks. Robb parts his lips, only then to realise he really does have no other rational response. Nadia rolls her eyes at this. "Come on," she says, walking past him.

Robb frozen a moment, confused by her odd behaviour. When he turns to follow, he's immediately presented with a bundle of wool. Robb raises a brow at it. "It's your cloak. I'm returning it to you."

"You're no longer cold?" he's sceptical, as her miniscule tremors are not to go amiss by him.

"Oh I am," she answer bluntly. Again, he's confused. "But I like the cold."

"I thought you come from a land of desert."

"Part of it's desert. Not the part I'm from."

Of course. He recalls her telling Rickon how the desert was to the far west. No, Nadia described the city she lived in much differently… "Four seasons in one day. I suppose that garners quite a bit of rain and frost too."

"Rain? Yes. Frost? Not so much." A small smile tugs at her lips, her brown eyes glistening sadly. Robb wonders what's going through her mind; what memories she's recalling. He'd be lying if he says he isn't even remotely intrigued in what her world was like. From what little he'd seen at the Bifrost, he knows it is nothing like this one.

The young lord realises he's been staring at her when her eyes turn up to meet his. Clearing his throat awkwardly, he looks to his feet as he moves half a step back.

Nadia frowns; something akin to realisation dawning on her. "How'd you know that?"

"Pardon?"

"How'd yaknow 'bout the desert? And the four season bit?"

"I heard you tell Rickon," he answer blankly, bemused when her tawny cheeks start flushing madly red.

"How much did you hear that day?"

Robb frowns. He doesn't understand why she seems so… 'Oh.' The young lord grins - something which seems to infuriate her just a tad bit. "Are you that embarrassed I heard you singing?"

Much to his surprise, a large part of him enjoys it when she exhales, "Oh for fuck's sake!" head dropping back with an overdramatised sense of defeat. "Will you just, please," she gestures for him to take the cloak from her and be done with it. Robb looks at it, then back to her. More specifically to her bared shoulders. He shakes his head, slipping his hands behind his back. "Keep it."

"I've got my cardigan-"

"If you mean that flimsy thing wrapped around your waist, then you're mad-" she looks perfectly put out by that comment, "I insist. It's yours." She stares at him as if he's lost his mind. So to prove a point, Robb does in fact pull it from her, and just as he'd done earlier that afternoon, he drapes it over her shoulders, this time unable to help it when his fingers brush over her skin.

She inhales sharply at the touch, but shows no other sign of discomfort. When he's done, he's immediately aware of how close they are standing. Almost as close as the time they'd visited the Bifrost. With the night-time temperatures dropping rapidly, their breaths begin to fog, entwining with one another's. Nadia bites her lip, her doe eyes flickering down when his eyes catch hers. Robb realises she must have been staring.

It's a heavy silence for a moment.

Only to be broken by the sound of grumbling. Loudly too.

If it were possible, Nadia bites down on her lip harder without drawing blood, her eyes screwing shut. The moment the noise thundered, her hands had wrapped themselves tightly around her torso, as if it would dampen the sound.

"You're hungry," Robb states, half-amused. She doesn't answer. Just a shrug. "Did you have supper?"

She shakes her head. Pursing her lips, she softly adds, "I, uh, haven't been able to eat all day. Between the image of a dead direwolf and all that vomit, I seemed to have lost my appetite," she winces then, apologising for painting a not-so-pretty picture.

"It seems you've found it again, he says nodding at her stomach. She shrugs, waving him off. "I'm fine. I'll just head to bed. Get some sleep. I'll feel better tomorrow." He's heard her sleep; she doesn't sound as if she gets much of it.

"Come with me," he starts, grabbing her arm and pulling him in step with him.

"Where are we going?"

"The kitchens."

"You don't have to-"

"I missed supper too. You might as well eat something too," he cuts her off. He rushes her into the kitchens via the backdoor, careful to stay out of the night patrol's sight. Robb heads straight for the pantry stocking the baked goods and cheeses. "I don't think we should be in here," Nadia whispers loudly.

In his normal voice, Robb replies, "I'm acting Lord of Winterfell. I'm allowed in my own kitchens."

"Okay fine. I don't think I should be in here. What if someone thinks I'm corrupting you?"

A loaf of bread in one arm, cheese and short-crumb in the other, he turns to face her. "Do you really care what they think?" Before she can answer, he brushes past her.

"That's not the point," she says as he takes a seat.

"Then what is the point?" He replies back still to her. She's silent. Robb pauses midway through a short-crust. Quickly swallowing what's on his tongue, he looks over his shoulder at her. A frown draws at his lips at the sight of her holding herself, a furrow between her brows as she watches him. Robb turns in his seat to better face her. "Nadia?"

She bites her lip. Shakes her head. "I don't get you."

"I don't think I follow."

"The cloak. The food. The walking me back to my room. Why do you bother?"

It's a good question, Robb will admit that. And if he's being honest with himself, he's not entirely sure. "Why did you tend to my hand?" he rebuts.

Her brown eyes appear so guarded, so contemplative. So unsure. "I dunno," she answers after several seconds.

His blue eyes flicker over her downcast face.

Subconsciously her hand moves over her stomach. This fact does not escape his attention.

"Short-crust?" He offers her a biscuit with an outstretched hand. Nadia looks between himself and the treat. He thinks she'll actually reject him, until her hand reaches out slowly, slipping it from his fingers. She holds the short-crust between both hands, wearing a shy, grateful smile.

Returning it with a gentle grin of his own, the young Stark nods to the stool beside him. Another second of indecision, but the girl takes it.

They sit like that, quietly eating. The only words exchanged is the offer of more treats from his end, all of which Nadia politely denies - save for the sweet short-crusts.

He glances at her; even in the shadows of the kitchen where only the moonlight from the windows trickles in, he can carefully make out the specks of whiskey in her dark brown orbs, and every little curl and wave of her short hair. "What?" She chuckles nervously, after catching him out at one point.

He shakes his head, brushing it off as nothing of import. But it's still there, playing on his mind. His mother sees good in this girl. He sees it too. But there's something more. Something else, hidden behind all this mystery surrounding her. The strange nightmares and supernatural screams. It all means something.

Robb tries to inquire, sounding the concerned friend; trying to gage how she's been handling it all. From what little he's seen, the young woman appears to occupy her time well; has quickly adopted a lifestyle, a routine for herself in his world. In his home.

She's quick to deflect the questions, offering just two words: "I'm fine." Hardly.

She's lying to him. Lying to herself.

The truth is Nadia's terrified of whatever is happening to her.

And she terrified of what is to come.

And for the first time, Robb doesn't feel a wariness, and need to be prepared for whatever horrific fates she had vaguely mentioned to him. For the first time he feels a dread. A fear.

* * *

 **A/N Please Review!**


	15. The Girl Who Knew Too Much

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello everyone! I'd like to thank everyone for the wonderful reviews so far! I've had some really interesting discussions with people regarding the story and characters. I also very much appreciate those who have offered some constructive criticism for me; it's helped me to learn and adapt as a writer.**

 **I will however say that I am not a fan of flames. Whilst the two that I received (whether they be from one person or two) are not the harshest I've read on mine or any other authors' stories, I will say that they are unappreciated and unhelpful. The flames were as follows:**

 _ **Guest chapter 13 . Mar 11  
**_ _ **You know that you are just writing a crappy canon rehash with your oc there to provide some comentarry right?**_ _ **This is pointless trash you should stop wasting your and our life with this**_

 _ **Guest chapter 14 . Mar 11  
**_ _ **Tag your oc shit with OC so those of us with half a brain can just filter it out and not have to consider how is it possible that something this stupid even exists**_

 **I'd just like to say if you hate a story don't read it and don't comment on it. What's the point of you reading 13 or 14 chapters of it and then claiming that I'm wasting your time. That right there is stupidity. You're wasting your own time reading something you don't like. You don't like it in the first two or three chapters, then stop and go onto something else. I'm not claiming my story is a godsend or better than anyone else's story; I'm aware that some people will dislike it, and fine that's their tastes and their opinion and I respect that. The least they could do is respect that this is my creative outlet, my project, my story and that there are others who enjoy reading it, so there's no need to try to sully it.  
I'm not forcing people to read my story. Stop being over-dramatic. It's sad. Really. In the description it says that the story is about a girl from our world crossing into their world, so if you didn't realise that even then it was an OC story, then that's your own ignorance again. And finally, the word is spelt "Commentary" not "Comentarry". Don't tell me I'm writing trash when you cannot even write.**

 **To all my other readers, those who love the story and those who are still fickle about it, I appreciate your reviews so far; not all of them have been praise, plenty have been constructive criticism, questioning the characters' motives and my own regarding where I'm going for the plot. It's not a commentary of the original plot. As i've said plenty times before, it will be a slow-burn in all senses. Nadia will definitely be changing things but at the same time, fate is fate, something's cannot be changed and shouldn't be changed.**

 **Now I apologise to other readers about my mini rant above. Onto my other (kinder) reviews.**

 **marvelmyra: Thank you for the correction. I did feel that alliance sounded too "powerful" a term when I did write it down originally but for lack of a better word used it. I will be more careful definitely when using the words allegiance and alliance. I'm not saying you would put down Midwives, it's simply that from my own experience (even with my parents and their friends) it's happened quite a bit, so I always feel the need to, for lack of a better word, justify the profession. And yes, Nadia will crack. Slowly, and bit by bit. About half way through season 2, we will see her reach her limit and just crack, out of nowhere basically, to Robb (a few times). Right now, things are sort of stable for her (or as stable as they can be), but we get to see that her "abilities" are taking a toll on her, as well as all the fears she's bottling up. People keep questioning me regarding why she doesn't do anything, and I've tried to have her explain it but it's been confusing (which is what I wanted, because she's in a turmoil about it); the reason she doesn't get involved and change things, is because she's all about self-preservation. It doesn't matter how caring and affectionate she is towards Rickon, and how much she enjoys Maester Luwin's company, or whatever weird friendship/acquaintance she has with Robb, Theon and Cat, she is a little selfish and wants to stay alive and she figures the best way to do that is to avoid all the killing when it happens - which can't happen if she changes things and loses the ability to "predict" what will happen next. Why is Nadia selfish? She's an only child, but she was never spoilt; she always had to be perfect, do what was told, and still it was never enough. She had no siblings to look out for her, so she only knows how to take care of herself. She's guarded, and she's afraid of the unknown, because her whole life was always planned out for her. That said... I don't want to spoil anything but... the Cat will go into negotiations with Walder Frey, with a little something up her sleeve... and that's all I will say.**

 **Now... onto the story...**

 **DISLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

BRAN

He doesn't like the raven. It always flies away leaving him with more riddles and no answers. The first night he'd awoken from his long sleep, he'd not dreamt of that bird. Bran thought perhaps it was the end of all that nonsense. But the second night, the bird was there again. Even in the day, as he hears the ravens in their tower crowing, Bran swears that it's him: the one with three-eyes.

He's become far too familiar with that bird to confuse it's call for another's.

Perhaps he's spent too much time alone, trapped in himself, by himself.

Bran's tired of lying in bed listening to old Nan's children's stories. He cannot climb. He cannot play. Or be a mighty warrior someday. But he can still dress himself and have breakfast with his family. At least what remains of it.

It's a rather quiet breakfast. And altogether much louder, what with Theon feeling less restrained by the lack of judgemental parental eyes scowling at his comments and attempts to flirt with the kitchemaids. Robb manages to compensate for their absence.

Bran never thought he'd say this, but he misses Arya.

Robb is pleased to see him up and about. He keeps smiling at Bran, somewhat forcefully, as if to say all is well with the world. "What do you want to do today?" he asks Bran.

"I want to climb, but I can't do that."

Robb holds back a grimace, for whose sake the ten year old knows not. "How about a game of cyvasse?"

"No."

"Do you want to practice your aim? We can sit you up on the-"

"What's the point? I can't be a knight anymore." Bran does feel guilty for the expression that crosses Robb's face. He's a moment from apologising when someone squealing his name echoes through the dining hall. The next thing he knows, Rickon's arms are wrapped around him practically knocking Bran off his seat. "Never, never, never again!"

"Rickon-" he exhales irritably.

"Promise!"

Bran sighs. "I promise," he softly says, patting his little brother on the back. Rickon reluctantly releases him, slipping into the seat next to his, all the while his eyes never wavering from Bran's face, a wide smile plastered from one ear to the other.

Another pair of footsteps - like horseshoes against the cobblestone - register then, in Bran's ear. He barely has to turn when a rough girlish voice makes itself known, "Sorry we're late. _Someone_ was giving the maids trouble when it came to his bath time."

Rickon appears sheepish at this.

Robb and Theon look amused.

Bran's still confused. The mystery girl has still to show her face to him, having stopped somewhere behind his seat. Across from him, Robb shoots her a slightly bemused look. "How would you know that?"

"One of your guards caught me heading down here. Said Rickon's terrorising the maids by running around like a mud rat. Whatever that is."

Robb's curiosity turn into downright confusion. "Who?"

"I think he said his name's Silas." The woman covers the short distance to the table, stepping up to the end between Bran and Robb. "Oh. Hey, hi," she says a little surprised at the sight of him. Her eyes flicker to Robb a split second before returning to him. Offering her hand, she introduces herself, "Uh, my name's Nadia."

"Bran," he replies accepting her hand. Smiling awkwardly, her cheeks flushing for no reason, she retracts her hand. "I can leave if you want," she tells Robb. It's Rickon's cries of protest that answer first. Robb exhales sharply, though more amused than irritated by Rickon's outburst it would seem. The eldest Stark gestures for her to take a seat. As she does, Bran manages to catch her eyes again.

And for a moment he sees an image.

Of Winterfell in snow.

Of a woman with brown skin and short hair as black as a raven's. But it was her eyes that struck him. Nothing extraordinary upon first glance. Just plain brown eyes.

But as he'd approached her, he'd looked closer. And he saw something like golden flecks. They'd made her eyes dance like fire.

"I know you," Bran tells her.

She looks flustered and even a little out of place - and not because of her odd dress. "Um… yeah," she begins, her voice a little dry. "I was there when you woke up."

"No, before that. I saw you."

Confused expressions are all around the table, except for maybe Rickon who seems to be only mildly curious whilst still gulfing down his meal.

Robb is first to ask, "What do you mean you saw her Bran?"

Bran looks at him, then back at her. Something flashes behind her eyes. It looks an awful lot like fear. The silence stretches for only seconds longer. Then he answers, "Before I woke up. In my dream. I saw her there."

* * *

"They've been gone a long time" Bran stares at the door. The bacon has long since gone cold, since Nadia and Robb had disappeared, the former practically dragged out of her chair by the latter. "What do you think they're doing?"

"I could tell you what they're not doing but I'm afraid your ears are still too young for that," Theon teases. Bran shoots him an annoyed look, but is surprised to find the Ironborn with an expression just as bemused and troubled as he feels, and it's also directed at the door.

"What are they not doing?" That would be Rickon's chipper voice, reminding both Bran and Theon how blissfully unaware the six year old is of this latest revelation. "Nothing," Theon tells the child. "Now run along. You've got lessons with Maester Luwin to go to."

"But I don't want to go!"

"If you don't go, the Maester will tell your mother when she returns." That seems to do the trick. Rickon's grumbles can be heard all the way out of the Great Hall.

When Bran can no longer see his brother, he turns his attention upon an expectant Theon. The young man sighs. "What do you want know?"

"What is she?"

Theon snorts. "Really? You don't want to know who she is first?"

"I already know who she is."

"You know her name. That's all," Theon rebuts. Bran goes to speak but quickly bites his tongue. His lips curl inwards, as if to lock away the words he'd so very nearly spoken. He hopes Theon doesn't notice. A quick glance to the twenty year old confirm otherwise. "Bran?"

Twiddling his thumbs, he avoids the elder boy's eye. "Bran," Theon persists, a hard edge to his voice, almost parental. "Look at me, Bran." Reluctantly he does as he's told. "Bran. What. Do. You. Know?"

He gulps. "He told me she's not from here. Not from this world," he mutters, eyes strained on his fumbling fingers.

"Who? Who told you Bran?"

"The three-eyed raven."

Theon looks at him incredulously. "Three-eyed raven?" The ironborn repeats.

Bran nods.

"I see… And what else did the bird tell you?"

"That she's special."

"And?"

"And nothing. That's all he told me."

Theon seems to find his story difficult to believe. He doubts that a raven - one with three eyes at that - would come to Bran in a dream just to tell him that Nadia's not of their world and is special without further disclosure. "Are you sure that's all he said to you?"

"Well…" he trails off, biting his lip nervously.

"Well? Well what?"

Bran looks at him. "He might have mentioned how she got here." Theon's silence reassures him to continue. "The Convergence."

Recognition flashes in Theon's eyes. "What about the Convergence?"

"Only that it's how she got here… And that there's no going back." This last bit causes Theon's frown to deepen. "Now tell me, what is she?"

"A banshee." It's not Theon who answers him. They both turn to face the subject of their discussion. She seems slightly amused by their expressions. "You know what they say, 'Speak of the devil and he doth appear'."

"Who's the devil?" Theon asks.

Nadia rolls her eyes, crossing her arms as she makes her way towards them. Slowly. As if testing the waters. "Nevermind," she replies. Those dark eyes then turn on his own Tully blue pair. Bran can't help but feel that they betray a certain sadness about her. He'd go so far as to even say pity. "Mind if I take a seat? I didn't get to eat much before…" before Robb practically dragged her out of the hall when the only verbal response she had for his questions concerning Bran's so-called dream, had been restricted to "um", "I-I" and "I don't-.

"Robb?" Theon inquires, noticing his brother's absence also.

The mention of the eldest Stark causes her to redirect her gaze, a look of discomfort and guilt etched across her tawny features. "He uh, got pulled away. Something about a messenger from Torrhen's Square. I'm not sure…"

Bran nods. "Sit, " he gestures to her former seat. Drawing up her chair, Nadia's eyes flicker between himself and Theon nervously. An awkward silence reverberates. Until Bran decides to voice his curiosity. "What's a banshee?"

Judging by her expression, the raven-haired woman is grateful for the question. She answers, "Well, if the stories are to be believed, banshees are spirits that warn others of impending death."

"Stories?"

"In her world, they don't exist," Theon pipes up, plopping a grape into his mouth. Nadia nods in confirmation, explaining, "They're just ghost stories dating back centuries."

Bran frowns. "But you do exist," he points out bemused.

Nadia nods. "True. But I wasn't like this until after I came here."

"How do you know?"

"Sorry?"

"How do you know if someone's going to die?" Bran elaborates. From the corner of his eyes, he notices Theon stiffen mid-chew. Nadia also pales a little, her brown skin turning a dark ashen grey. Unsure of how or why, Bran knows he's certainly strayed into dangerous territory. Whatever it is, it must confuse and scare her as much as his dreams about the three-eyed raven. Bran wonders if so, does that mean she also feels the same exhilaration he feels when he is one with Summer or when he's soaring amongst the grey clouds, high above Westeros.

Nadia bites her lip, her fingers tightening on her cup. "Sometimes nightmares or hallucinations. Sometimes it's just my gut feeling." She tilts her head, her gaze burning a hole into the side of her cup. But…"

Eager to know more, he coaxes her on. Nadia relinquishes. "But, always, there are these voices. Like whispers. In my head," she adds the last bit in an almost whisper.

"Sounds mad, right?" the subsequent thud after Theon's remarks is presumptively followed by a deserved exclamation of "Ow!" The elder lad throws a pained glare at the guilty party who simply returns it with an alarmingly innocent grin. "What?"

Theon mumbles under his breath, something about women and sensitivity, which earned him another kick. Realising how quickly the pair of young adults will fall into an immature cycle, Bran interrupts… "What's it like? The voices in your head?"

Her playful grin slips from her face. "It's like being lost in a fog," she rasps, her tone serious again.

Bran purses his lips, allowing her words to sink in a moment. Then asks, "How do you clear the fog?"

"I scream."

* * *

 **A/N So... what do you guys think? Please lemme know! I really appreciate constructive reviews NOT flames. Thank you!**

 **Amber**


	16. The Evolution of Conversation

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello my lovely readers. How are we all? I wanna celebrate that I've crossed over the half-centurion: 55 followers! Thank you all so much. I'm so happy you all like this story and I especially adore those of you who supported me against the flames from a few weeks ago. You are all too sweet! I send you virtual hugs.**

 **I am truly curious what it is you guys enjoy about this story, so pls Review and tell me. Speaking of Reviews, let me answer some:**

 **REVIEWS:**

 **Guest 1: Thank you so much! I'm glad someone likes Nadia, because I think the Starks aren't sure what they think of her ;D**

 **Guest 2: Ha! Yes, seeing all the boys trying to dunk a ball in their leather vests would be a fun sight. I'm not sure how Robb would feel about putting up a hoop in the courtyard though;D. There will be mentions if other sports or traditions from our World and we may even get to see Nadia integrate them here in Westeros... but it's not the priority for the moment. Those will mainly be for fluff chapters. When you say breaking the fourth wall, do you mean in the literal sense as in directly addressing the audience (like in Deadpool)? Or do you mean that veil between Nadia's previously perceived notion of reality and fantasy? I'm confused but intrigued by this comment**

 **jean d'arc: thank you for your kind words. I know my rant last week was longer than the actual chapter. Unfortunately the next few chapters are also a little on the shorter side but as recompense I play around a bit more with the dominant character perspective.**

 **Figuratively dying: I apologise for the short chapter last week... and for the one this week. But hopefully the suspense and intrigue will draw you back again ;D. As i said above, be prepared in the next few chapters for interesting / different character perspectives as opposed to what I've been doing so far.**

 **To all my other readers... please follow and pkease review. I want to know what you are thinking - likes, dislikes, theories, confusion... just no pointless Flames.**

 **I apologise for the brevity of this chapter but I promise the next won't be too far behind.**

 **Now... onto the STORY**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its Characters. They are the property or HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **NADIA**

She stares out the window. Glares at it, more like. She knows it's a stubborn act, but honestly she's so fed up with this shit. She crosses her arms tighter. "Nadia," his deep voices rumbles low and dangerously. Closing her eyes, she breathes out a sharp breath. "What?" she practically spits out.

His hand wraps around her upper arm, forcing her around to face him. She forces her eyes away from his anyway, glaring at their feet. "Show me respect-"

"Respect?" A tawny finger pokes him in the chest roughly, her angry brown eyes glaring at his icy blue ones now. "Don't you talk to me about respect. Okay, I am fed up with this princely shit act. I get it you're the Lord of Winterfell, but I am not some peasant, least of all your peasant. So don't think you can just order me around or drag me into shady little hallways and interrogate whenever you think I step out of line."

Robb's silent when she's done. The only sound is that of her heavy breaths at the end of her little rant. It's only now she realises how cold it is in this end of the hall, each breath forming a wisp of icy fog. Perhaps she should have worn Robb's cloak this morning; her batwing cardigan barely does the job. Grey skies are the norm in Winterfell, but this morning has been particularly bleak, almost black the skies; the promise of a storm. If that isn't a dark omen of things to come, she doesn't know what is.

She suppresses a shiver, especially as Robb presses closer to her, back her into the cool stone wall. The finger poking him, turns into a flattened palm pressed firmly against his chest. It's as if she's pushing him away but at the same time, it's as if he's glued to her hand, stuck there. He inhales deeply, shaking his head a little. He glances down and exhales sharply. From beneath auburn lashes, Robb looks at her carefully. Voice softer this time, gentler, he says, "You were out of line."

Honestly, if she wasn't a girl, she'd have thought he'd punched her by the look he'd given her as he quite literally demanded her to follow him from the Great Hall just a few minutes ago. But now, she's a little taken aback by his change in tone. Eyes wavering, she whispers, "I know… I'm sorry."

Robb runs a hand through his hair, a forced grin on his face. "I am too. My father raised me to be a gentleman."

Nadia feels the corner of her lips turn up slightly, her dimples showing themselves. "Well you are… for the most part." He shoots her an incredulous look. She rolls her eyes. "It's rare I'm not a total bitch. Please accept the compliment."

"You? A bitch? I doubt it," he says good naturedly.

"You underestimate me, mister."

"Please. You're harmless. It's no wonder that my brothers are so infatuated with you." Nadia blushes at the comment. Biting her lip, her gaze falls to her hand - the one still on Robb's chest. His gaze falls to it also. She goes to pull it back, but his hand on said wrist stops her, holding her palm there. His blue gaze catches hers. "Why?"

"Why what?"

He gives her a look as if to tell her not to treat him like an idiot. His lips part to say something but is cut short by Theon's voice ringing down the hall, "There you are!" It's quickly followed by the sound of the Ironborn's loud footsteps, hurrying over to the pair of them. He stops just short of them, a questioning look bouncing between Nadia, Robb and their joined hands on the latter's chest. Robb drops his hand from her wrist at the same time that she pulls it away, crossing it over her chest to consciously rub her other arm. Theon's sends a look over to his best friend, one that says, "We'll talk later."

"What is it, Theon?" Robb says, a hint of irritation in his tone. Theon does his best (which is truthfully not all that good to begin with) to hide his smirk. "I was wondering where you two disappeared to."

"Why?" Robb asks.

"No reason… other than the fact you looked ready to kill her," he nods in Nadia's direction, causing both of them to glower at him. Theon turns to her, "What was that all about, anyway?"

She shrugs, now feeling uncomfortable with both their questioning looks turned on her. "It was nothing."

"That's horse shit," Theon rebuts. "You in love with the dwarf?"

"No!" She has no doubt that her face clearly expresses her shock at the question.

"Then what is it? You a fan of the Lannisters?"

"God no!" she hisses. "Are you insane? Their family is toxic."

"So explain your little act back there," Theon pushes. She bites her tongue, stopping short of telling him to go fuck himself, that it's none of his business. Robb's hand comes to rest on hers, stilling her nervous ministrations on her shoulder. His blue eyes penetrate her; it's painful how much they bleed with such genuine curiosity, begging her to tell him where she stands. "Nadia?"

In all honesty it was an accident. But when he'd excused himself from resting at Winterfell, her refusal had just slipped past her lips… loud enough for everyone in the Hall to hear. She sighs, biting her lip, drawing her gaze away from Robb's. "He's my favourite character," she mutters.

There's an awkward silence. And then a simultaneous, "The dwarf?" The boys' incredulity and muted rage bear upon their faces for her to see.

She winces. And nods.

"Tyrion?" Theon asks.

"Yep."

"Lannister?" Robb practically spits the name as if it is poison on his tongue.

"Yes."

Again silence. Then, "Tyrion Lannister?"

"Yes! Oh my gosh, yes. Tyrion Lannister is my favourite character. Can you stop now?" she exclaims, a little annoyed.

Robb frowns. "But he's a Lannister." As if that's a good excuse. But honestly, if her hunches are right, Tyrion is perhaps a little more than just a Lannister. She supposes though, that this will be one of the few times that she'll just have to wait and see - that is if she lives long enough, which, knowing her luck, wouldn't last an-

Her runaway thoughts are cut off as she realises that Robb and Theon are waiting for an answer. Which confuses her, because hasn't she already given one? "What?"

"Lannister. He's a Lannister. The Lannisters tried to kill Bran-"

"But they didn't," she argues, then winces, realising how stupid those words are.

"You're defending them," Robb hisses.

"No!"

"Then wha-"

"Tyrion didn't do it!" She shouts, fed up with the interrogation. "Okay? Tyrion didn't push Bran. And he didn't send the assassin after Bran, even though it is his dagger. He has no idea why someone would want to kill Bran, nor would he want to kill Bran or anyone in your family. Whoremonger or not. Lannister or not. Tyrion is a good guy." Again, she finds herself breathless at the end of her rant. She can see the clockwork in Robb and Theon's minds, slowly trying to process her words.

"He didn't do it?" Robb asks. Nadia has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. 'Gosh, men are slow,' she thinks to herself, as she answers him, "No."

His face takes on that silent, brooding expression that's usually reserved for Jon. And it honestly annoys her a little, because it rouses a sensation like nails grating on a chalkboard, just punishing her with not knowing where his headspace is. And not for the first time.

Theon clears his throat, "So you are in love with him?" he teases.

Nadia shoves him in the shoulder playfully. "I'm not."

"Then what is it?" .

Nadia feels a little flustered. This is awkward. Telling people she likes their perceived enemy more than them. She'd normally brush it off, and excuse herself. But their expressions betray a sense of judgement, of accusation… as sense that she's stupid and ignorant. And it irks her, because it reminds her ever so slightly of a look she'd received so many times before.

Theon pushes again - he's rather good at that. "Why would he be your favourite. He's Lannister after all, how good can he be?" Again the Ironborn asks, and judging by the look on Robb's face, the young Stark agrees with such sentiment

"Gee, I don't know," she begins dramatically, a hint of annoyance strong in her tone. "Maybe it's because he's smart - extremely smart - or maybe it's something to do with the witty, sarcastic banter. Maybe it's because he never gets looked at twice. Or maybe it's because he knows what it's like to live each day with a father's eternal scorn. Nope. No idea why I would like Tyrion."

A dead silence. That's perhaps a record. Three, or is it four dead silences in the space of ten minutes. Nadia certainly has a gift for making things awkward. Clearing her throat, she announces, "Right, well, I promised Maester Luwin I'd show him how to get shit out of a constipated patient with a lemon enema and I plan to do just that. If you'll excuse me boys."

The last thing she hears as she darts out of the hallway, is Theon asking, "What's an enema?"

* * *

 **A/N Ah, modern medicine. So there you have it. Short, sweet, succinct. Not much to it but it does set up for interesting things to come... lemme know what you think**


	17. Runaway Tales

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! What did I tell ya? In retribution of the sin of an incredibly short chapter last time, I present you this chapter a little earlier than usual ;D**

 **On the downside... it's also a bit short. On the upside... it's a new character perspective! One that terrified me to post because this character is just perfectly exceptional and I didn't want to do him injustice. Honestly when I first wrote this chapter, it was back in my original draft and totally on a whim. Until this chapter, I had only been writing from Nadia and Robb's perspective, but I had felt like having a bit of fun and write from the character POV. And truth be told, it dramatically changed my original plot for the story. So I hope you guys likey...**

 **... but first... REVIEWS!**

 **Kanui d'Astor: Thank you for your comments. They were actually very insightful cos it gives me a good idea of what you all take from this and which bits you're most drawn to. Nope, Nadia will not be a Mary Sue (hopefully). I think it's far too easy for these types of OCs - with all their knowledge - to be "perfect" because they are coming from a world with advanced technology, science, medicine, education and (in some cases) politics; modern women have exceptionally more freedom than their victorian counterparts let alone iron age counterparts, and are capable of physical and mental labour as men are - we cook, clean, have kids but also we get an education, go to work, do sports, play instruments, fight. It's about finding that balance of reconciling having this knowledge ans these abilities and knowing what is appropriate, or can be applied to this world that is in many ways primitive and lacks the technology, the knowledge that we possess. When I was planning Nadia's character, I wrote her weaknesses, flaws (physically, emotionally and intellectually) before I wrote her strengths. And funnily enough if I exclude her supernatural abilities, her flaws won out. Speaking of supernatural, she honestly wasn't ging to have visions initially. But then I thought, what value could she have to this story if she didn't know what came next. She'd be dead in two seconds. Visions don't guarantee survival but they do make her valuable when it comes to being able to influence events later on. It doesn't make sense, I'm sure since most of her visions are premonitions of death but as the story goes on, we get to see her powers unraveland evolve slowly. I'm glad you like the story so far and thank you for sharing that with me!**

 **ColdHeartAngel: dont worry, you make perfect sense. Yep, it's still a rather grey area for Nadia trying to come to terms with the fact that this is a reality. She hasn't been sicked into a book or tv show. She's very literally travelled across the universe and landed on another planet. This story is very Thor inspired in that sense, and as we go through the story, I will be trying to tie other myths and legends of our world back to this world of Game of Thrones to sort of "justify" this reality. The Tyrion thing... i don't think it's a long shot to say Tyrion is one of everyone's favourite characters. But on that note, GoT is compelling because many characters aren't black or white. Nadia will have her TAME fangirl moments here and there as she did with Tyrion in the last chapter but she'll also have to figure out how that affects her allegiance to the Starks as well as how it drives the story forward. I can't give an example without ruining how Nadia plans to deal with those situations, so I will instead describe it using a Harry Potter example - someone goes into Potter's world, kills Wormtail before he can betray Harry... Neville either gets killed and the Voldemort continues to terrorise the world or Neville's protected from Voldemort as Harry was, is raised by his grandmother and enters the Hogwarts the adorable bumbling forgetful lad who loses everyone's respect of him as the BWL and most likely gets killed by Voldemort eventually. Does that make sense? In terms of Robb trying to find out Nadia's least favourite character... well it's like trying to bleed a rock. She'll be tight-lipped... sometimes. I mentioned in one of my early chapters that Nadia disappearex from her world in November. That is November 2016. So she is well aware of what happens up to the end of season 6 and it is more tv show based with elements of the book appearing throughout, e.g. the histories, certain characters or events that were altered, but OOC or plotholes are 100 percent valid as the show and books will be written off much later down the track as "close interpretations". I'm glad you likes that last chapter. It was one I was afraid would be a little pointless.**

 **Jean d'arc: medical advancements will be made in Westeros! I solemnly decree it! No, seriously, while somethings are difficult to integrate from our world to GoT, Nadia is bright and well-read, she's a student health professional - so continuous professional development and Evidence-based Practice is well-ingrained in her. We will get to see these interesting snippets of her nursing knowledge among other things. Tell Catelyn... well, not to spoil anything, but before Cat departed Winterfell, she told Nadia that she would "remember" something...**

 **Thank you guys for you reviews. Pls continue to do so ;D**

 **Now... onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **TYRION**

The wine is sweet and strong as it goes down, lingering on his senses. Swirling his cup, he watches the crimson liquid slosh, skirting the edges before skirting back down the sides. Green eyes flicker, then, around the table.

Awkward and abysmal. There are no better words to describe this dinner affair. To his left, Yoren seems quite non-plussed about the lack of conversation. Next to the Ranger, the young Ironborn inhales his food, glancing up from his plate every so often to ogle the cupbearer's pleasantly plump breasts, brushing against his face as she fills his goblet. When he can spare a moment to stop thinking with cock, Greyjoy's attention would drift to his friend and the maiden at his side.

Truthfully Tyrion would probably have turned down Robb Stark's reluctant offer, had it not been for the strange young woman. She intrigued him from the moment she stepped into the Great Hall, a crippled Bran in her arms and the youngest Stark boy following silently at her side, not unlike a pup would its master. He'd initially thought her a servant, albeit a strange one at that, her attire quite unusual (even a little inappropriate, especially for these stiff Northerners) for a woman, let alone a servant.

Her refusal to let him be turned away had been an accident, he's sure of it. She'd stuttered so stupidly, obviously pressed under the glares of the young Lord Stark and few other Northerners gathered in the room. But the deed had been done, and Robb Stark had been forced to extend his courtesy yet again; nay, he insisted upon it.

Although given how insufferably drab this dinner is, he is beginning to have second thoughts. The awkwardness of it all is ever so palpable. Clearing his throat, he raises his glass to Robb Stark. "This is quite a lovely meal, my Lord. Your house is very generous."

A soft snort is heard from the raven-haired women, earning her a side-glare from Robb. Ignoring her, the boy turns his attention back to Tyrion. "I owe you my Lord. Your gift for my brother is one that cannot be repaid… and I fear my… attitude towards you earlier was shameful. Forgive me, but I am still young and the stress of being Lord of Winterfell can be much for me at times." While Tyrion is quite sure the young man's ill reception of him stems much deeper than merestress, he can see the honest penance in the boy's eyes. From the way those Tully blues shift to meet a brown pair, he knows that the girl must have a hand in this too. Just who was this woman to affect a Stark so? He clearly wasn't bedding her, that Tyrion was sure of. They didn't even seem to be bosom friends, an awkward tension hanging between the pair constantly.

"Robb's right. Bran hasn't been able to shut up since finding out he can ride again," she adds, smiling at him gently. "He's been quiet since he'd woken up, barely spoke to anyone."

"He speaks to you," Robb says suddenly, turning to her. Tyrion's eye flicker between the two, watching the hesitant smiles they trade. He catches the Ironborn rolling his eyes at them. Perhaps he's wrong. Perhaps there is something between these two children.

A pesky silence fills the space yet again. Tyrion feels as if he'd claw his eyes out if no one says another word. So he suggests a game… "It's of my own making. I make a statement about you," he points between the Theon, Robb and Nadia, "If I'm right, you drink. If I'm wrong, I drink." Beside him, Yoren snorts gulping down some more wine. "Playing games with children, Lord Tyrion? Have you become so idle minded?"

The children all look ready to retort they are in fact not, but bite their tongues. Ignoring the man, Tyrion turns his attention on Greyjoy. "You were rejected by the first girl you tried to court. No doubt you took out your frustrations at the brothel and that's the tale of how you became a man." Correct. To Robb, "Always the gentleman, never chased a skirt in your life, but wouldn't stop a girl swooning over you. I would bet, however, that you also became a man due to a midnight visit to the brothel - no doubt having been persuaded by this one," he points at Greyjoy, then turning to the only woman in the room, he pauses. Lannister green eyes narrow at her scrutinizingly, causing her to drop her gaze to her hands uncomfortably. "You… you ran away from home."

Her dark eyes flicker up to his from beneath thick lashes. Slowly she raises her cup… but does not sip. Instead she questions him, "Why would I do that?"

A challenge. Tyrion's impressed. She's making him fight for the knowledge. "Well," he begins, narrowing his eyes at her with scrutiny, "You were an only child of small middle class house in your homeland. You don't strike me as someone who likes to live by others' rules-" this earns him a sly grin from Robb at the corner of his eye, "- but that's all you've ever known. Perhaps you didn't like the prospect of having your life chosen for you by your parents," He pauses, thinking over his answer, then nods quite happy with his deduction. Her odd attire and accent displace her very far from Westeros, perhaps far East, or even a small city to the North of Sothoros. Culture aside, he has no doubts that she has experienced pressures, similar as to what he's witnessed of many a young girl - or lad - of the Court has. The imp has seen the toll it has taken on his own sister, moulding her into a cruel, hateful creature over the years. Looking at this tawny faced creature before him, face round with youth, eyes so doe-like, he can't help but come to the correct conclusion: "Ergo you ran away."

She pauses, her eyes widening at nothing in particular. It happens so quickly he cannot even begin analyse the reflective look she'd worn so briefly. Nadia offers him, then, a stiff nod. And takes a sip of her wine. Slipping the cup away from her lips, she confirms, "I ran away," her gaze unfocused, voice a little distant.

Things go quiet. Tyrion isn't ignorant to the careful looks the two youngest men give her, even though she is, her dark gaze intent on her food. Even in the dim light, he can make out Robb Stark clenching his jaw, his eyes filled with carefully concealed concern for her. Perhaps he's touched a nerve.

"Is it my turn to guess?" she asks him. Tyrion gestures for her to try. A sly smirk edges onto her face, but she quickly masks it. It's odd how much like Cersei she seems, in that moment. While many would say that's a compliment, to be likened to his sister, the fierce beauty of the Seven Kingdoms, Tyrion can't help but think it detracts from the girl's subtle pretty features. 'Appear like the innocent flower, but be the serpent underneath,' he thinks.

Nadia takes her time, watching him carefully. From the corners of his eyes, he can see her two companions tense, their eyes flickering between her and each other curiously, as if unsure what she'll say or whether it will be good. She avoids his eyes as she speaks. "You've always been fascinated with the unknown. Monsters. Perhaps because that's how you feel others see you. It's why you went to the Wall. Curiosity for the Children and the narks."

Tyrion nods. "Somewhat true. Although I honestly wanted to take a piss of the edge of the world," he admits cockily, yet takes a sip. She raises her finger, as if to say she's not done. "You're a Lannister," she almost sings amusedly, almost mockingly. "Proud. Rich. Powerful family name. You're sister's the queen. You're father, a former Hand of the King. You probs woulda spent lots'a time at Court. I wouldn't be surprised if you ever snuck into the dungeons to admire the dragon skulls they keep there. I imagine you'd spend hours just watching them. Wondering what it would have been like to see them fly." By the end of her monologue, her eyes are on him, confidently. Almost daring him to tell her she's wrong. Her fingers trace the edge of her cup, waiting for him to pick up his own. She knows. It's not a guess, a carefully made deduction. She truly knows this truth. And it makes him nervous. Painfully slowly, he raises his goblet and downs the remaining wine. Sighing, he slouches in his chair.

His gaze never leaves her kindly smirking face. "I'm intrigued, I must say," he admits. "How did you guess such a thing?" She shrugs, answering, "I'm good at reading people. Part of the job."

"Job?"

"Nadia's a physician of sorts," the Young Stark answers for her this time. "She's travelled to small villages throughout Essos before coming to Westeros to learn from our Maesters," Robb looks at her, with a quirk in his lips, "And to teach them a little something of her own."

Curious. "Why come to Winterfell then?" Yoren questions. "There are a great deal more Maesters in King's Landing. And even more at Old Town." The man isn't wrong. Why seek out one lone Maester, when she'd have access to plenty more as well as a grander library of knowledge elsewhere.

Nadia simply shrugs, as if the matter is of no big deal. "Honestly, I was a bit lost when I arrived in Westeros. I had no food or money left, little-to-no means of transport… " She pauses, her gaze drifting to Robb. "Robb found me, passed out, starved. Brought me into his home and offered me shelter." The two share a discreet look of understanding, as if sharing a secret no one else knows. _'Curiouser and curiouser,'_ Tyrion thinks. Her eyes then flicker to the Lannister, himself. "Maester Luwin is kind enough to teach me, and I find he's quite knowledgeable. And no offence, but I've heard stories about your Grand Maester… I don't think I'd wanna be in a room alone with him. Does that answer your question, Lord Tyrion?"

He nods. It's a perfectly acceptable answer, especially the part concerning Pycelle - the old whoremonger is about as useful as a frog. So then why doesn't Tyrion believe her?

A loud thump is heard under the table. The Lannister and Yoren directs their gaze to the children down from them. Theon is shooting Nadia a bruised look, Robb is discretely glowering at them with disapproval, and perhaps a little amusement.

A low creak echoes through the room, the sound of wood grating against stone, followed by the soft padding of feet across the floor. Craning his neck, Tyrion can just about make out a small silvery-grey furry head, propping up onto the girl's lap. Her nimble fingers relieve a small scroll from its jaws. Unrolling it, her brows furrow before quickly smoothing out in amusement. "Bran and Rickon wanna hear a bedtime story. If you don't mind, gentleman," she says turning to Robb. He nods, a glint of something in his blue eyes, that Tyrion cannot quite place, only that it softens the icy stoicism he's been carrying so far. Nadia rises from her seat, silently offering her pardons to Yoren and Theon, the latter of whom returns her a smile, no where near as whoremongerish as he does for other women. When Nadia turns to Tyrion, she raises her chin a little. "Sorry to leave so suddenly, lord Tyrion. I heard you were a great conversationalist with a sharp mind. I was hoping to hear your stories, maybe glean some of your wisdom."

Tyrion smirks at her. "Wisdom? My lady you do me much kindness with your compliments. If only my father saw me as you do."

She smiles at him sadly. "If only, all fathers respected their children as they wish to be respected."

Tyrion raises a brow at her. "It is lovely meeting you, Lady Nadia. Give my regards to young Bran." She concedes to, removing herself from the dining hall. Tyrion looks about the table, before exclaiming, "I like her." His eyes land on Robb. "It's fortunate you found her."

"It is," Robb says, a soft smile gracing his features. A steady quiet fills the space where the girl left. He attempts to inquire more about her, about her place here in Winterfell. She hasn't been here long, less than two months, given that's when he left of the Wall. Stark confirms this. Tyrion can understand saving her, granting her shelter, but not keeping her around for that long. Her studies are of no benefit to the Starks, unless she is to offer her services, nor is she a warm body to keep either young man company at night. From what little Robb tells him, she cares for the children. She asks for no pay, no clothes, no nothing. She never even asked to stay. He simply never turned her away.

Honour. It's honour that keeps her here, Tyrion thinks.

Is it honour then, that they lied to him. Granted, the girl's act was convincing enough but he is a Lannister. He's seen Court enough times to spy a liar. Nadia is one. The Stark and Greyjoy know this, he suspects, yet spoke nothing of it.

 _'They're protecting her.'_

Tyrion wants to ask more of the curious woman, yet curbs his curiosity. Stark has a certain protectiveness of her, he can tell. Instead, it's the absence of another woman he inquires to. "Where is your Lady mother, Lord Stark?" Robb tenses immediately, eyes flickering to his friend. "She's not here," he answers.

"Thank you for stating the obvious." This particularly quip earns him a heated glare from the young Lord. Apparently Catelyn Stark nee Tully, has decided to leave her children in charge of Winterfell, "...my aunt Lysa was particularly distressed, given Lord Arryn's recent passing. My mother could no longer ignore her." An understandable tale, yes. But that is exactly what it is, a tale. Tyrion looks upon Robb Stark and sees a boy just as honourable as his father. Too honourable to lie convincingly. Tyrion's eyes narrow. He takes another sip of his wine.

Yoren's chair screeches as he pushes back from the table. "Well, I've ridden for days and now I've eaten like a King. If you'd excuse me, my Lords, I think I'm going to take a long piss and have a good fucking sleep. This one," he nods at Tyrion, "has been talking my ear off, from the moment we left the Wall."

His steps echo as he takes his pardons. Tyrion glances to the boys. "And then there were three."

Greyjoy is the next to leave, claiming he can't keep the whores begging. The Ironborn ignores the annoyed expression his friend shoots him, patting him on the shoulder as if to say, "gods give you strength."

 _'Wit, more like it,'_ Tyrion thinks, eyeing the boy.

Echoing his own words, Robb says, "And then there were two."

"And then there were two," Tyrion repeats, savouring the wine as it goes down his throat. He gestures to wench to bring more, only then realising she's gone. Must have slipped out with the Ironborn.

At first, he thinks he'd be bored with Robb Stark. Truthfully he was. But then boy inquires as to his bastard of a brother. Tyrion can't keep the affection out of his voice as he speaks of Jon Snow.

"Good. I am happy for my brother," Robb nods, a sad smile on his face.

"You wish he weren't gone."

"I wish none of them weren't. But they all had their reasons." Tyrion can only watch Robb, watch as he reminisces of his family. Tyrion had only ever known that kind of familial love from Jaime alone. It makes him envy the Starks. Envy their loyalty, their love. Even a bastard like Jon Snow, despite being an outcast due to Catelyn's insecurities, he is loved by his father and siblings in a way Tyrion will never understand. Robb's voice cuts through his musings. "I was going to have him legitimised," he meets Tyrion's curious gaze. "Jon. When I became the true Lord of Winterfell, I was to request the King legitimise my brother. I'd give him his inheritance, that my mother sought to deny him. He'd never felt like he belonged… but he did to me."

"You have a good heart, Robb Stark." Tyrion raises his goblet to him. "This world is not good to men with good hearts. It's a shame, really. Let me give you some advice." Leaning in, Robb reflects his motion. "Be careful who you trust. Be careful who you give your heart to."

At that moment the dining hall door opens again, a familiar young woman appearing. Robb grins at her, absentmindedly replying to Tyrion, "I will."

* * *

 **A/N Like? Follow pls. Question, comments, theories? Review pls.**

 **Amber**


	18. AM

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers... so i hoped you guys enjyed the last chapter. Tyrion. Easily everyone's favourite character or one of. His pov will be quite rare until we reach season 5-ish. But there will be a few here and there until then... and one coming up soon too!**

 **Now... REVIEWS:**

 **Jean d'arc: yeah, i love Tyrion playing games and i felt it would irk him if someone could "read" him as he does them. It's always funny to see when he doesn't know something cos it really irritates him. Will Nadia stall him... no promises. The only title of import that she carries is that of Robb's ward. Nothing else really distinguishes her, so approaching Tyrion would seem awfully suspicious and she can't really command nobility. But I promise there will be some changes... soon... very soon...**

 **Guest: Nadia hasn't been crying and falling to pieces for 13 chapters. She's questioned her sanity yes... but come on, she woke up in a story. At this point she's been in Winterfell about a month. People take months to adapt after moving countries.. we're talking worlds here. Robb's mentioned she's found a routine to keep herself occupied, though she still needs to get used to customs and there always is the communication barrier in terms of how everyone speaks and she speaks. But health professionals are trained to be able to adapt quickly to their situations and that's what she's trying to do here. Her crying and screaming is for a reason. She's no longer questioning her sanity. You'd realise that if you keep reading, i promise.**

 **Marvelmyra: I think it's safe to say that Nadia will influence the "pact" with Walder Frey but it's what comes before it that really plays into the impact of that deal for the bridge. I don't wanna spoil too much tho. Nadia fell into Winterfell well after Bran's fall, about three weeks - so around the time Ned arrived in King's Landing and Jon at the Wall. Again she's a little scared to change the plot cos she's afraid she'll lose her advantage to survive, seeing as her visions only tell her when someone has or is going to die.**

 **Guest: lol. Shit-stupid out of Theon... that's brilliant. Nadia may be using a more gentle approach, unfortunately... but more on that later...**

 **Now... onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **CATELYN**

Ned - her dearest, darling Ned - has always been one to tease, bringing her to the brink before retreating, just as he does now. She cries in protest and he finds he cannot deny her.

So gives into her.

The muscles of his back ripple beneath her touch. She quivers beneath his. Long, drawn out sensuous kisses capture her gasps with every thrust. Catelyn feels as though her skin is on fire wherever his fingers trail.

Her hand curls up between them, running down his chest as he paints loving kisses down her neck and breasts.

She gasps. She cries. She falls in love. Again. And again. And again. And again.

His tongue runs over her lips, she open them for him and they engage in a battle, which she ultimately loses though it feels like she's the winner.

Sweaty and pink, she collapses against him when, bright auburn hair like crown of flames behind her head. Her fingers draw lazy circles upon his chest; they play loving ministrations upon his scars from battles long past, just as her lips had done in their love-making.

His lips press against her forehead. "What are you thinking?" he breathes into her hair.

She answers slowly, "I'm thinking… that I don't know who to trust."

Ned sighs. "Little Finger?"

She hums in affirmation. "We used to be such good friends. Why would he lie to me now?"

"I don't know. Some men lie for the women they love," he says gruffly. A sly smile crosses Catelyn's face. Tilting her head up, she rests her chin on his bare chest, so that she can better look at him. Ned's face is as stoic as ever, but there's also the smallest glint of something else. "You're jealous."

"Of Baelish?" He spits the name, incredulity and insult clear upon his face.

Catelyn's smiles grows wider. "My dear husband is jealous of Lord Baelish," she teases.

Ned growls and the next thing Catelyn knows, she's on her back, her husband's wide chest pressed firmly against hers. There's a heat between her legs, where she feels every inch of him. He peppers kisses along her neck. "Why should I be jealous? You are in here with me," he says between kisses.

Catelyn giggles as though she is a young maiden again. Her fingers run through his dark locks, tightening on his scalp; she forces him to look at her, throwing him a sly smile. "These are the actions of a jealous man," she whispers before forcing his lips against hers. Ned meets her enthusiastically. She can feel him moving against her, but before they lose their wits to yet another throe of passion, she pulls away. "We must talk, Ned."

He looks at her with the expression of a pup denied dinner by his Master. Sighing, Ned presses one last kiss to her head before rolling back to his side. He pulls himself to sit, as does she. Their hands remain intertwined between them, their fingers caressing each others. "Is this about the girl?" he asks, after a moment of quiet.

She hums as if to say yes, leaning her head upon his shoulder.

The fireplace across from their bed is alive, the flames dancing about wildly, through great shadows about these chambers. The walls are covered in silk and satin, colours wildly exotic and overwhelming spiced aromatics that make her feel a little sick. But even then, even with these turbulent thoughts, these unanswered questions, and her dark thoughts of all the horrible things that could happen to her family, Catelyn cannot deny how at home she feels, how safe she feels, simply lying in Ned's arms. The arm wrapped around her shoulder shifts a little; she feels his fingers run through her hair, tugging lightly, twirling her auburn locks around his fingers.

"Do you trust her?" he asks her.

"I don't know. I want to."

"Because of her abilities? Because of what she knows?" Ned quizzes.

"Because she saved Bran," Catelyn answers, her breath above a whisper. Her eyes immediately fall to her crippled hand. Angry marron lines marr her pale white skin. Ned's hand wraps around her wrist, pulling said hand to his lips. He kisses her scars, and as ridiculous as it seems, they hurt a little less with each kiss. She stares at him, with so much love for him and so much worry for what's to come, unable to forget all of Nadia's warnings. "Ned, I'm afraid."

He sighs against her hand. Ceasing his kisses, he lays her wounded hand against over his heart, his hand resting above hers, their fingers interlocked. "Are you sure her warnings are to be believed."

"You haven't seen what she can do," Catelyn replies. "I don't understand it either. And not long ago I would have called you mad if you told me the things I have told you, regarding her."

Neds exhales deeply. A look of brooding crosses his features. A brief silence later, he asks, "A Banshee?"

She nods. "That's what she told Robb."

"I've never heard of such a thing."

"Apparently they are only folk lore in her world."

Ned pinches the bridge of his nose, his brows furrowing. "Foreign worlds. Banshees. The only thing that makes sense so far is that Little Finger is not to be trusted."

Catelyn chuckles along with him, though both are forced and strained; A vain effort on both their parts to reconcile the mystery of Bran's assassin and Jon Arryn's death and of the troubled girl with foreboding premonitions of the fate of their family and Kingdom.

Finally Catelyn finds the courage to say what she's been wanting to say for weeks now: "Come home. Come home with me, Ned."

Her eyes glisten with fresh tears, her heart feeling so heavy with fear and worry. She doesn't wish for morning to come, doesn't wish to be parted from her husband; the last thing she wants is to leave the safety of his arms, caressing her pale shoulders, warming her cool skin. He sighs a deep sigh. "I cannot. You know that. Not until we've figured all of this out. If Robert's in trouble-"

"Fuck Robert! Fuck the King!" she hisses, only to look like an admonished pup seeing the expression that overcomes his face. "Ned please," she pleads with him. "Think of your family. You are not like these people. You have your nobility. And it will be the death of you."

She cannot fathom what goes on behind those stormy grey eyes. He's always been so much more careful of his emotions than her, so careful to not wear his heart on his sleeve, even in front of her. He truly is the Lord of Winter. And it frustrates her so. "Ned," she presses, leaning into him, laying her forehead to his, her eyes slipping closed. They breath the same breath. She wants to remember this moment, this intimacy they have. His grip on her waist tightens drawing her closer. "Cat…" he whispers. Her blue Tully eyes open so wide, so hopeful he'll heed her pleas.

He doesn't. "Tell me about the Lannisters."

She can't suppress her look of disappointment. Pulling away from him, but so as to not leave his hold, Cat turns to face the fireplace. She draws her knees to her chest. "I've told you what she said."

"And now I want to talk about it."

"A moment ago you were doing everything possible to let that conversation go," she admonishes. It doesn't faze her husband. The great man, towers over her even as they lay beside one another. "Tell me, Cat."

"I don't know what else to say. One of them were there. Who… I cannot say. But the girl seems to believe that the dwarf is innocent of all Baelish's accusations."

"Then perhaps we should believe her."

"Perhaps," Catelyn whispers, her mind growing weary with all this talk. "She's not the enemy, I know that is certain. But…"

"But?" he prompts.

"But she is reluctant to be our ally."

"She wants to go home, you cannot blame her for that."

Catelyn sighs, knowing he speaks the truth. Still, one cannot blame her for wanting to be selfish, for wanting to protect her family. "She cannot. Maester Luwin told me that the chances of her returning are slim."

"As slim as the chances of her crossing into our world?" he rebuts.

"Slimmer," she returns, tone stern and hollow. The pity in Ned's eyes matches her own. "The poor thing. I think sometimes, that I was too hard on her."

"You weren't," Ned says. She gives him a look, he chuckles. "Perhaps you were a little."

She smiles. She remembers how Nadia had squirmed under her criticising gaze, had been so humbled by Catelyn's honest words of her judgement of the banshee. Perhaps it may have been a little harsh, but it is true nonetheless. And Lady Catelyn has never been one to soften a blow for the sake of preserving one's feelings uselessly. No, she is a Northerner's wife after all.

She huffs a tired breath, leaning her head against her husband chest. "It's all so complicated."

"When are things ever not?" Ned chuckles, bittersweetly.

She shakes her head, eyes distant, a soft smile tugging at her lips. "I miss you and the girls. I miss Arya sneaking off from Septa Mordane to practice her bow with the boys. I miss how Sansa would beg me each morning and night to run braids through her hair..." they continue on like this, bittersweet smiles painted in their faces, reminiscing a life that now feels millennia. Ned doesn't even press her slip-up mentioning Jon as she recalled one stormy night when both he and Robb had cared for their siblings; Cat and Ned had found Sansa and Arya snoring soundly between both boys, baby Bran sleeping sweetly in the cradle of Jon's arms. No, despite how much she loathes to admit it, Catelyn Stark cannot deny the bastard's love for her children; a fact that irks her... but she's also never begrudged him it.

Catelyn settles her head in the crook of Ned's shoulder, her nose just brushing the beard of his jawline. Beyond the dark lines if her downcast lashes, the fireplace dances alight, it shadows like sputtering fingers on the walls and ceiling. Her husband's large hand runs itself back and forth across her bare skin, squeezing her shoulder with gentle grace, drawing her closer into him.

"Do you think there will be war?" she asks Ned after several moments. It's a thought that has been playing on her mind for weeks now.

He rubs her shoulders, squeezing her tighter against his heat. "Now why would you say such a thing?"

"Insults like these warrant war. Secrets. Lies. Betrayal. Murder. It's all a vicious game." Warm lips press a kiss to her temple, soothing the ache in her head- but only a little. "I don't like this, Ned. I don't like it at all," she turns to face him, her blue eyes matching his brooding grey. "I don't need a banshee to tell me something is dire. I feel it in my bones."

She cannot fathom the thoughts behind that stoic grey gaze of his. He then presses his lips into her hairline; so soft is his touch, as if to caress a babe's cheek, and yet with a strength, a silent a promise that soothes her worst fears and anxieties.

When he pulls back the hard lines of middle age smoothen, and Catelyn finds herself reminded of the fresh-faced lad she once married, a roguish smile buried beneath his solemn countenance. The grin on his face makes her feel the blushing virgin, again. "That love, is because you are a Stark. And Winter is Coming."

Catelyn knows he's trying to distract, to take her mind of its troubled course. She knows better than to let her husband sway her to allowing him to shoulder all their burdens alone. But there's a glint in his eye. Behind the hard lines of age, of duty and honour, his eyes beg this one thing of her.

Solace.

It brings him solace to know she won't worry, to know that she won't partake in bearing this weight they must share.

Craning her neck up, Catelyn presses her lips to his. Several drawn out seconds later, parting for her breath, she allows a sly smile to paint her features. "Then perhaps you should keep me warm."

A growl of lust. A squeal of pleasant surprise.

A moan of their growing lust. A whimper of love.

His kisses trail her jaw. Her neck. Kissing the pumping vein of her slender neck. His hands trail over her feverish skin, rough and gentle altogether. Like a true Northerner.

Gasps of "Ned."

Of "Cat."

She loves him. Catelyn loves him. Ned. Her Ned. Hers.

Forever hers.

* * *

 **A/N ... watcha think? Pls lemme know in the reviews and follow if you likey! Thank you**

 **Amber**


	19. Outta my hands

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! Firstly, I'd like to say that i recently reposted a few chapters. Nothing has changed, except Nadia's date of "disappearance" is no longer November 13th but October 13th. I did this because I wanted certain events to coincide with NYE of her world (though there stil might be some discreancies in earljer chapters... pls ignore that).**

 **Timeline is still iffy so far: June 18th - Nadia crosses the veil and is found by Robb, roughly a week after Ned and Jon have left Winterfell; June 25th - Library fire and assassination attempt on Bran; June 28th and 29th - Nadia and Robb visit the Bifrost; July 7th Catelyn leaves Winterfell; July 8th- Bran wakes up; July 20th - Dinner with Tyrion; August 10th- Catelyn leaves King's Landing; August 20th- this chapter!**

 **Now... reviews;**

 **Guest- Thanks for your opinion. If you don't like angst I seriously wonder how the hell you even watch Game of Thrones. Every chapter I've included has been meaningful - don't think I'm not putting in effort! I have this story planned for all six seasons of the show! The beginning is slow for a reason to build relationships, to set up triggers and points of origin for future events, and for character development. If you think a story is made on just crucial events then I suggest you look elsewhere; good stories are those with substance through smaller arcs; does this mean you reckon any scene between Jon and Tyrion was pointless in the show, cos they did little to nothing to further the plot? And if you're the same guest that I think you are, I would like to know why you keep reading or commenting on a story you dislike?**

 **ColdHeartAngel- Yes! Cat and Ned are soo adorable. I was actuallg upset when some of their sexytime in the books weren't translated to the screen. And after watching a commentary with Michelle Fairley and Nikolai Coster-Walder (Catelyn and Jaime, respectively), Michelle mentions how she wishes she got to do some of the raunchier, sexier stuff, so I thought Ned is sucha big part of Catelyn's life, imma give these two some good lovin' time in my story. Unfortunately yes bad things are too come, wouldn't be GoT without it. Actress for Nadia... never thought about it. In my head she was Indian raised in Australia (heritage plays into parental issues that we'll get to see down the track... think Bend it like Beckham feel), shortish, short, wild wavy/curly hair, not thin but voluptuous figure... once you asked me about an actress I kinda just went straight for Huma Qureshi.**

 **Jean d'arc- oh honey... men don't listen... EVER. Trust me.**

 **Child of Dreams- I'm glad you likey! :)**

 **NOW... For the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the pdoperty of HBO and George R.R Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **ROBB**

He watches with delight as Bran races ahead of them, shouting gleefully from atop his mare. Beside him Theon yells to the boy to slow down, only to be met with laughter. Tightening his grip on the reins, Robb encourages his own ride to speed up. A muffled squeal sounds in his ears, and he has to bite back a laugh, especially when a pair of arms tighten their grip on his cloak. Releasing the reins with his right hand, he reaches behind him and - just as he'd done barely three weeks earlier - takes one of her hands at a time, pulling them around his waist. Her hands are hesitant but she follows suit, drawing closer to him. Beneath the wind, he hears her raspy tones mutter into his cloak a soft, "Thanks."

They stop when they reach a small clearing. Unsaddling, he turns to assist Nadia, but she's already hopped off, though from the way she's standing, he can tell she clearly didn't enjoy the ride.

Theon pats her on the shoulder. "If only Tyrion Lannister could see you now. You look like shit." Slapping his hand away, she straightens up. "Unfortunately he's a little tied up at the moment," she bites out. Her face quickly screws with remorse. "Sorry I-"

"Don't. It's been taken care of," Robb cuts her off.

Nadia pouts, arms crossed, appearing like a stubborn child who just got told off. Kicking the dirt, she replies, "Yeah but it still happened, and now..." Now Jory Cassel is dead. Now his father has been wounded. Now the Kingslayer raids the Riverlands, going unpunished for his crimes. The banshee may not have said it, but it's on all three of their minds.

Clearing her throat, she tries to change the subject to divert the tension... "Anyway, no offence to you or your horse-" she directs at himself, "but I fucking hate riding."

"Darling, you can't imagine what it's like to ride until you've been well and truly fucked. All you've got to do is say the word," Theon says, throwing her a wink as if to seal the deal. Robb throws him an exasperated look, while the girl between them shoves him away. "Fuck off, Greyjoy."

"I do like it when you talk dirty." Nadia snorts in amusement, rolling her eyes as she walks away from them. She takes a seat on a rock, watching Bran trot around her in circles. "Must you be so crude?" he asks Theon, a little heatedly. Theon's always been a little - understatement - flirtatious with women. He knows the Ironborn is simply joking with her, that his intentions are rather innocent and friendly towards the girl. Perhaps the first woman they've met who Theon isn't actually pursuing. Still, his comments unsettle Robb a little. Nudging him, Theon replies, "Nadia isn't complaining. She knows it's only a little innocent flirting. You on the other hand could do better to hide your jealousy."

He blinks. "Jealousy?"

Theon says nothing, simply gesturing towards Robb's hand. The young Stark's surprised to find it settled on his sword, ready to draw. "This means nothing," he hisses.

"Sure, sure." They take their place at Nadia's side, watching Bran. Rickon had wanted to come with them, but Maester Luwin insisted he had been falling behind in his lessons, shooting Nadia a weary look. The girl apologised. She was unaware Rickon had been wagging as she put it. After explaining to them what the term meant, Theon had felt inclined to inquire as to whether she's ever wagged before. Apparently, she's not quite as innocent as she seems. Though she insists she ended up studying half the time that she wasn't sneaking out to cafes with friends - thus introducing them to the term of nerd. Her language is still something they'd have to get used to.

There are times when she'd speak so much like them that, if it were not for her accent and attire, Robb could have sworn she was a highborn. Sometimes, she'd even take pleasure in mocking their accents, showcasing her impersonation of their rough Northern tongue as well as the polite Southern accents. Robb's favourite by far had to be her Dornish impression. He'd never met a Dornish man, so it was rather refreshing.

The warmth next to him disappears and he turns to see Nadia, walking up to pet Bran's horse as he quizzes her on his skills.

"When are you going to tell him?" Theon whispers.

"Not yet." Bran had been nagging them all for the news that had arrived from King's Landing that morning. Nadia had ceased up as she passed the scroll from Maester Luwin to himself, almost forgetting they were all there as she had stared at the unbroken seal, offering it to him with a soft, "I'm sorry." She had only kept silent on his orders. It reminds him, now, that he should be upset with her for telling Bran about her gifts (as well as Theon who'd done nothing to stop her) but she'd told him Bran is special. Different. Gifted. Robb had cringed when he'd heard those words. It makes him feel like a hypocrite, telling her she's gifted but knowing truly the burden she bears. To hear her use those words to describe his brother… it fills him with dread.

Theon continues to trail on. "Blood for blood. You need to make the Lannisters pay for Jory and the others." War. Sometimes he forgets Theon is an Ironborn. His friend calls it Justice. He's not sure what to make of it. "Only the Lord of Winterfell can call the bannermen and raise an army."

"A Lannister put his spear through your father's leg. The Kingslayer rides for Casterly Rock where no one can touch him…"

"You want me to march on Casterly Rock?"

"You're not a boy anymore." His words cause Robb's teeth to clench. "They attacked your father. They've already started the war. It's your duty to represent your House when your father can't."

"And it's not your duty, because it's not your House." Glaring at the older boy, Robb becomes very aware of the silence surrounding them. Ignoring his fuming friend, he slowly rises turning about to catch sign of their two companions. But both woman and child are missing. "Where's Bran?"

"I don't know. It's not my House," Theon quips, yet makes motion to look for them.

Going in the opposite direction, Robb follows a familiar trail he'd taken once or twice before. Above him, the trees begin to close in even more and the wind grows nippier. He calls for Bran. When he receives no answer, he calls for Nadia. Upon the third time, he hears the haunting scream echoing from the forest depths.

Branches swipe at him, scratching at his face, tearing at his cloak but he could care less. When he finds them, they're surrounded by Wildlings, Nadia crouching protectively in front of Bran, somewhat akin to a feline guarding her cubs. From her lips a scream tears through the air, disillusioning their attackers. Quick on his feet, Robb swipes low at the nearest one, felling him with one blow. The others converge on him slowly, turning their backs on Nadia and Bran. He's focused on dodging and striking but, from the corner of his eye, catches Nadia try to usher Bran away to safety. She doesn't see the wildling sneak up on her until he's got her on her back, his filthy hands wrapped around her throat. Robb fights to get to her but all he can do is watch from behind a wall of wildlings as she claws desperately at the man's hands; beneath the angered shouts and clashing steel, he thinks he can hear desperate gasping as her lungs fight to draw breath.

He stabs the man to his right, pivots to the left and watches as he buries his blade through a fat belly. Blood is coughed up on his face as life leaves the wilding's eyes. Robb rushes towards Nadia's attacker then, just as she finds the strength to rip out a merciless wail; the sheer force of it is enough to throw her attacker off her and Robb doesn't hesitate run his sword through the man's throat. One last wildling tries to escape him but he quickly grasp hold of her by her hair, dragging her to her knees.

"Stop!" He faces the one other remaining raider. A bloodied blade curves against Bran's neck. It takes all his willpower to not slay the woman and charge this man. "Drop your blade boy, or this one gets it," he sneers at Robb. His blue eyes flicker to Bran's brown ones. The boy's sweet face is panic-stricken and yet he finds the courage to beg Robb do the opposite, to not yield. "I said drop it!"

He feels his fingers clench around the sword's helm a moment, before loosening his grip. The sword slips from his hands, colliding with the dirt. Yellow teeth smirk at him. "That's a good lad. I'll kill you swiftly after I make you watch me fuck your pretty little whore over there," he nods towards Nadia, who's struggling still to catch her breath. He thinks he hears her curse the wildling to hell but attention is drawn to the arrow that soon pierces the man's chest, just a few inches above his brother's own head. Bran's released from the man, falling away from where the wildling's body collapses. Theon's revealed in the distance, slowly dropping his bow.

"What do you think you're doing?" Robb hisses at the Ironborn, rushing to his brother's side. Reassuring himself that Bran is well, he turns his fury on his friend. "You could have killed Bran!"

Theon scoffs, "I wouldn't have."

"What's the matter with you!"

"He would have killed you, cut Bran's throat and raped Nadia!" Theon argues.

"You have no right-"

"To save you? It was the only thing to do, so I did it!" Robb and Theon staredown at one another for a few silent moments. Theon is the first to break the gaze, turning to the woman whom he aims an arrow at. "What do we do with this one?"

"Leave her alone." The voice that spoke is so inaudible, they almost never hear her if it isn't for the tense silence. Robb's eyes find themselves trained on an obsidian pair, pleading with him beneath her pain. "Make her a servant, a handmaiden, whatever. Just spare her."

Clenching his teeth, he turns his attention to the whimpering wildling woman. She looks almost pathetic now but he remembers how she fought. "Robb..." Closing his eyes, he listens to Nadia's hoarse, broken voice.

"Take her back to Winterfell and put her to work in the kitchens," he orders Theon. The Ironborn leads her away, hesitating just before he leaves their sight. "You alright," he directs at Nadia. She nods, giving Theon a gentle smile which he accepts just before leaving.

Lifting Bran onto his horse, Robb checks if the boy is capable of riding. "I'm fine. He didn't hurt me, Robb."

"Alright. Go on home. And stay where Theon and I can see you." Slapping the mare, it gives a slight jolt trotting away merrily. Robb finally turns to Nadia. She looks down at her shirt then back up at him. "This is the second time someone's tried to kill me in this shirt. You think it's a sign?"

She tries to keep high spirits all the ride back to Winterfell, a difficult task given she can barely talk. Robb insists Maester Luwin look over her. "Bruised trachea. She's lucky it wasn't fully crushed," he says, dropping his fingers that gently probe her neck. Turning to Nadia, the old man asks, slightly awed, "How in the world did you manage to scream?" Nadia shrugs in response. Shaking his head the Maester pats her hand. "Rest your voice a few days, and drink hot liquids. I'm afraid you'll have to avoid solid foods while you heal. I'll ask the cook to prepare soups for your meals."

The suggestion causes her to pout childishly but she accepts his words nevertheless. Hopping up from the table, she curtsies slightly as if to offer her thanks. The silly action earns a chuckle from the Maester. "Get on," he indicates towards the door. Leaving the old man be, Robb and Nadia walk silently down the halls. After some time, he speaks up. "Bran and Rickon will be sorely disappointed. They'd been enjoying your stories. On the bright side, Bran might stop calling me Sarah Connor, whoever that is."

"Maybe I'll tell you some time."

"Maester Luwin said you shouldn't speak." She tries to argue but his hand covers her mouth. She weakly glares at him, causing Robb to chuckle. His fingers slowly leave her lips one at a time, noting how supple and warm they feel beneath his touch, skimming over her cheeks, slightly muddied from when she was attacked. Brushing the dirt away, they trail down to her neck, where yellow and purple bruises begin to fade into brown skin, taking the form of the wildling's hands. As his thumb brushes against a particularly nasty one, Nadia flinches but doesn't pull away from him. He throws her an apologetic look and the wildling's words come back to him. "I'm sorry I let this happen to you." She shakes her head, tries to refuse him but his guilty conscience reminds him of what could have happened had Theon not showed up. "He-he could have... and I wouldn't have been able to do anything."

His eyes drop from hers, too ashamed at his weakness to behold them. Nadia's gentle yet calloused hand hesitates for some second before it comes to rest on his cheek. She tries to draw his gaze back to hers but he stays adamant to deny her. Her breath brushes against his face as she sighs. Then she does the last thing he expects. She hugs him.

Her body is as stiff as his own, as if expecting him to throw her away. It urges him to wrap his arms around her waist and draw her in, closing the gap between them. Closing his eyes, he buries his face into her raven locks. They stay locked in this embrace a while and Robb takes the opportunity to make observations about her he hadn't really before. The first is she smells exotic, tropical, the sweet salty sea combined with some fruity scent he can't quite place. The next is that she's much shorter than she appears, the top of her head reaching up to his lips. The third, is what Theon has made a point to remark on wherever possible. Nadia's unlike many girls he's met. She's not small and frail like a doll, but rather voluptuous, her wide hips and comely breasts moulded against his own body, as if no clothing separates them. Knowing he can't allow himself to entertain such thoughts about her, let alone how uncharacteristically inappropriate it is of him to, he pulls away hastily.

"I'm not interrupting am I?" Theon's mocking voice calls out to them. He shakes his head profusely, though the expression on the older man's face suggests disbelief. Rather than gift them with some crude remark or another, the Ironborn purses his lips, a vain effort to conceal his lascivious smirk. It's quickly swiped away by Nadia's reply: "Aw, you jealous 'cos your favourite whore left?"

Yes. Not to her statement - though Robb won't deny the fact he's noticed Theon spends far less time occupying the brothel in town - but yes to the question: does her knowledge scare him? Major events, he'd understand her knowing. It's like how every child knows the Mad King burned his victims alive before all the Court to see. What catches Robb's awe - and irks him too - is the little things. Trivial conversations, idle activities of their daily routine. The name of Theon's favourite whore - and the fact that Jon almost lost his virginity to her (another one if Theon's treats). If Robb were to liken it, he'd say it's like knowing the Mad King enjoyed spiced tea with pigeon pie for supper.

Still... he can't help the amused snort that escapes him. It earns the young lord an empty glare from his friend and a grin from their female companion. Rolling his eyes at them, Theon huffs, "Come on then, the servants are putting out lunch. And I'm sure Robbiekins is craving something..." Theon laughs the entire time Robb chases him to the dining hall.

* * *

"Robb?"

"Hmm?" When Bran doesn't reply, Robb turns from the windows to look at him. The ten year old is fiddling with his sheets, awful quiet. More so than usual. "Bran, what is it?" he frowns.

"The clearing today…" he trails off.

Robb sighs. "You don't have to fear the wildlings. They're gone Bran."

"It's not the wildlings."

Robb frowns, slowly stepping towards the cot. The only other thing… "is it Nadia? What you saw her do today?"

Bran's eyes flicker, as if only now remembering what the banshee had done, the display of her power. Granted, nothing compared to what she'd inflicted upon the assassin, but still it was a hell of a bloody scream. Bran shakes his head, though. This isn't what bothers him. Robb's beside the cot now, looking down over his crippled little brother. "Bran," he says softly. Bran's eyes turn up to meet his. "I was just remembering," he says. "The clearing, by the stream. Jory brought us there once, to fish for trout. You and me and Jon. Do you remember?"

"I remember," he tells Rickon, voice low and sombre. Of course he does. It had been one of their many outings together, between training in the tiltyard. Robb had been thirteen then, as had Jon, Bran merely six years of age. The girls had been off with their mother as had Rickon - just a babe then - and Theon had been taken east with his father to see to repairs on a village distraught by floods. It was one of the gloomier days in Winterfell, and Bran had been missing father so very much. Jory had taken it upon himself to take all the lads fishing.

"I didn't catch anything," Bran says, "but Jon gave me his fish on the way back to Winterfell." Aye, Robb remembers that also. Jon had been a prodigy at fishing, caught at least twice more than Robb had. Bran had so desperately wanted to show off to mother that he'd caught something, so Jon donated his own small pile. Jon always did things like that, allowed his trueborn siblings to reap the glory and the praise. Robb fees a bitterness in his heart, a self-loathing for being what is he is, for being a trueborn son. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd been the bastard and Jon the true heir, or at least that his mother had not been so cruel. Perhaps then Jon would have stayed. May have even taken the name Stark.

It's Bran who voices the question that he's been troubling him since he had said, 'Farewell, Snow,'..."Will we ever see Jon again?"

It takes him a moment, and even then his uncertainty and hopefulness doesn't hide as he points out, "We saw Uncle Benjen when the king came to visit. Jon will visit too, you'll see."

There's a flash of something across Bran's face - a reluctance to believe Robb's words. Robb doesn't blame him. Given how things have been lately, he feels uncertain of anything these days. And if that's not enough, Winter is Coming. In just a few years the snows may be too thick, the storms too wild and the cold too biting for anyone to manage the trek between Castle Black and Winterfell. And if that is the case and Maester Luwin is right, it could be a great many years before he'll see Jon again. He could be Lord of Winterfell by then. And perhaps Jon, in all his potential and quiet strength, will have risen through the ranks to be First Ranger after their Uncle, or better - the Lord Commander of the Night's Watch.

Whatever the case, be it next year or the next decade, Robb anticipates their reunion. As does Bran, who has already begun rambling off all the creatures Jon may come to encounter. Robb grins down affectionately as the lad's eyes droop heavily, slowly succumbing to the clutches of sleep.

Silently he departs from the room, patting Summer's head as the welp takes guard by Bran's bedside.

Grey Wind patters along by Robb's side, coming to a standstill as his master does, not far down the hall from the room they just vacated. Robb tits his head curiously at Rickon's ajar door. Inching towards it, he peers through gap from where his brother's light voice drifts. The sight of Rickon curled up by Nadia's side, an oversized storybook in his lap, reading to the woman - it warms Robb's heart. Rickon struggles through each new word, slow but steady. Obviously the six year old is intent on having his story time with her, even if it means he's narrating for once.

"Oi, Robb! There you are!"

Robb winces, glancing away from Theon waving to him from the end of the hall, to the pair inside the room. He sighs, relieved that neither one has been alerted to his presence. Backing away from the door, Robb makes his way over to Theon, who is now joined by Silas also. "What is it?" He asks.

Theon reveals a bottle of Volantian rum from behind his back. "Jory's favourite."

Robb glances at Silas. "Quent, you're encouraging him," he says skeptically. The older man shrugs. "Jory would want to be celebrated, not mourned."

That's how Robb finds himself an hour later, chuckling till his sides hurt with Theon and Silas over a half-empty bottle of rum. Silas Quent had just been telling them of the time Jory had altered his uncle's belt, so that midway through a demonstration, Winterfell's very own Master-of-Arms dropped trouser before a crowd of at least a hundred trainee soldiers. The funniest part was that Rodrik didn't once let his... exposure... hinder him. By the end of it, his sparring partner had been running for the hills, fearful that Ser Rodrik's unrelenting advancements had been less of a violent nature and more of a sexual one. The young man, for he had only been a young man, had to forfeit a finger for the insult - so was Ser Rodrik's wrath. A wrath that till this day never once has suspected that a certain Jory Cassel had a hand in. "Bloody hells!" Theon gasps, cradling his aching side. Looking at his two comrades, faces flushed, laughing uncontrollably, he comes to the conclusion that they are drunk. If he's honest with himself, so is he. "Aye, Jory, you will be sorely missed," Silas raises a cup to their dead friend, as if his ghost is watching over them now. Robb can imagine Jory shaking his head, the laughter burning in his eyes at the sight of these three "misfit lads" as he used to call them.

The humour seems to vanish from the room in that short minute. Heavy is the realisation of what has come to pass. Dead. Jory Cassel, his dear friend, his father's friend dead. Killed. By Jaime Lannister. And for what?

The dwarf.

She'd told them he's innocent. Nadia had. She'd forsaken to tell Robb that his mother arrested Tyrion in the original story too. She'd thought that by counselling his mother, it would have persuaded her against her actions. But Nadia had thought wrong. Catelyn Stark is as stubborn as a Northerner can be. Once she makes up her mind about something, it's rare she ever sees things any other way. But his mother's impulsive actions is not what bothers him most. No, it's the fact that Nadia had chosen to confide in his mother over him. Granted he hadn't been speaking to her much, but still…

"Jon should be here." It's Theon's voice this time, more sombre than Robb has ever heard it before. "Jory cared for him too. Do you think your father's written him?" The Ironborn turns to him.

Robb shrugs. "I'll write him anyway. He won't take the news well."

Silas grins, but it's far too sad at the same time, "I can imagine he'll be taking out his anger on some poor unsuspecting bastard. All that frost can't be good for him."

"He's a Stark. Winter is in his blood," Robb hears himself say, but his voice sounds too empty. Quent slaps his arm, leaving his hand upon Robb's shoulder. "You know he's not alone up there. Jon's got your Uncle. And he'll make friends." Quent offers Robb a reassuring look. Robb returns it with a smile, albeit a weak one, saying, "He's not a child."

"Then stop acting like a worried parent."

Theon snorts. "Have you met Robb? He acts like a third parent to all of them," he jokes, lifting his cup to his lips.

Robb rolls his eyes, playfully shoving the Ironborn, causing some of the rum to spill down his chin. He won't deny Theon's words though. As the eldest, Robb's always felt it his duty to look after his siblings, even Jon. Sometimes especially Jon. It doesn't matter that they're nearly the same age, off all his siblings, Jon was the one targeted the most by the villagers and by the workers… and by his mother. Robb would never insult Jon's pride by acting the protective brother, but he'd never stood down from threatening others for their silence and respect. Bastard or not, Jon is still a son of the Warden of the North.

"I don't know…" Quent's voice cuts through his thoughts, a particular humour about him that has Robb curious… "From what I've seen, Bran and Rickon seemed to have acquired a second mother to replace him."  
"I'll witness to that," Theon's says, raising his cup to Quent's.

"What?"

"The girl," Quent replies. "While you've been busy running Winterfell, your brothers have been nipping at her heels like lost pups. Especially Rickon." Quent smiles, his dark eyes dancing with a fond look… "You know I caught him picking flowers by the stables for her. Seems you have some competition Robb."

Robb frowns, bemused by the comment. "What do you mean?"

Quent chuckles. Robb's frown deepens. Quent stops chuckling, seeing this. He glances from Robb to Theon, then to Robb again. He finally questions Theon, "He's joking, isn't he?"

Theon shakes his head.

Robb frowns. "You're as bad as Theon, Silas."

"Forgive me, my lord," Quent replies, chuckles undermining his sincerity, "I meant no disrespect."

"Fuck off," Robb mutters into another swig of his drink. Seems the alcohol has gone to the others' heads for they burst into yet another chuckling fit, somewhat more controlled than before seeing as Robb's giving them the stink-eye. "Nadia is my ward. I feel nothing for her other than gratitude for the care and protection she's given my brothers, not to mention it would be rather useful having another physician to help Maester Luwin. Why do you both insist my intentions are otherwise?"

Masking his laughter as a coughing fit, Quent poorly attempts to school his expression. "We - Or I'm not insisting anything. I just want you to be careful Robb."

"Careful?"

"Nadia is pretty enough-"

"Got a good arse on her, that's for sure."

Ignoring the Ironborn, Silas continues, "the children adore her and her them, and she must be rather bright if she can keep up with the Maester in conversation - all attractive qualities. But she's no highborn, Robb. With the Lannisters raiding your grandfather's lands, your father wounded by the Kingslayer himself and the assassin sent for Bran, times have become unpredictable. As Lord of Winterfell you have certain duties. You need to be careful who you associate with. People talk."

"I know that," Robb grits out. "You think I don't?"

"I know you do."

"Robb," Theon says, drawing the Stark's glare away from their friend. "Silas is right. We might have been teasing you before, but it doesn't make it any less true. You can't afford to have silly affections for a girl of no status other than the one you granted her-"

"It's a good thing, then, that I have no affections for her. Nadia is my ward. Nothing more, nothing less."

A terse silence hangs over them. Then… "Robb." Tully blue eyes flicker to the older man, matching his brown eyes. "I honestly meant no disrespect towards either of you. She seems like a good sort. I only had to make sure... for your sake. Something's coming. I don't know what."

Winter.

Winter is Coming.


	20. Guilty until proven Innocent

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: yet another short and sweet chapter my lovely readers.**

 **But before that... REVIEWS:**

 **Guest:... i have tagged it OC now, but honestly it's pretty obvious from the summary that this is an OC. What did you think? That Essos was in our world and that Daenerys was crossing the veil? Come on bro, seriously.**

 **Marvelmyra: Thank you for your comments and support. Yep... Nadia can be rather frustating at times. But hey, she's human. Ned should listen to his wife, i totally agree. I think everyone ahould listen to Catelyn. I'm certain that Robyn Arryn is Jon Arryn's son. Lysa lied to Cat because Petyr said they could be together if she did, and Lysa is crazy obsessed with him. Nadia doesn't tell Cat this but she does tell Cat other things... she does this because she doesn't wanna become too involved and therefore a pawn in these games but also because she hopes certain thing won't come into effect and therefore mentioning them would he a rude awakening for the other characters. In terms of Jon and Robb's relationship... it is rathef brief in the books and show, hence why i try to emphasise it a lot through Robb's perspective. Communication will be more open between them and when we hit the later seasons where they are both in positions of power as leaders it will certainly lead to an interesting dynamic between them, but at the end of the day they are brothers and friends. I even ix the story up a little and make it seem that Theon and Jon were friends beforehand, unlike in the book and show.**

 **cat105: i agree with you. I dislike when two characters are all over one another, intensely lovey dovey when they began as rocky as Nadia and Robb are (or worse). While it will seem at times that Robb and Nadia are "drawn to one another" it will be bcked by a great hesitance, reluctance and guilt on both their parts, both justifying their feelings as wrong or inappropriate at times. And even after their eventual slow burn works comes together, you can count on arguments and disagreements, on normal convos that have nothing to do with love and aren't all sickeningly sweet (just some... maybe...). Real people. Real relationships. Real flaws. Real love. I'm aiming for these.**

 **LadyBritish: She's Indian raised in Australia. Double diverse!**

 **Guest: thank you! Your words are very kind and supportive. You're right in that i haven't been on this site long, just over a month actually. I just don't see the point in flames. It's a waste of everybody's time.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of George R.R. Martin and HBO. I won Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **TYRION.**

The air rushes up to meet him, running itself through his golden locks. Tyrion embraces blue skies with open arms, clouds soft beneath his fingertips, breaking apart in mere misty wisps. The scaled beast shifts its muscles beneath him and he feels himself slide forward - only a little but it does not frighten him. No, he rejoices in such freedom.

That is until the grating echo of steel against stone jars him from his dreams. When the Lannister comes too, he lets a frightful yelp at the sight of the world fallen away before him. He clambers backwards to the far wall, well and truly clear of the cliff. He must have rolled to the edge in the middle of the night, or perhaps his stature stood no test against the icy wind. Imagine, only a few inches more and…

Tyrion shakes his head. He's a cynical creature but there are some things even he finds too morbid to consider. Clearly one night in this hell hole is one night too many.

Soft footfalls pad across the sloping stone floor towards him. Nothing like the stomping bricks of that brutish oaf of a guard. A fact he's grateful for, considering there could only be so few times the man threatens to throw him over the edge before actually doing.

He turns to greet his visitor. _'... I'd have been better of with Mord.'_

"Lord Tyrion."

"Lady Stark," he bites out with false sweetness. "Impatient to hear me confess? Very well, then. Where do I begin? I'm a vile man. I confess it. My crimes and sins are beyond counting." The woman raises her brow at him, but shows no other expression. He continues, "I have lied and cheated, gambled and whored. I am not particularly violent but... I am good at convincing others to do violence for me-" there it is, a flicker of... doubt? How odd, perhaps he is mistaken... "You want specifics I suppose..." he goes on to tell her about the naked serving girl (one of the many) and the horse-shit in his uncle's boots, of the turtle soup Cersei ate (or at least he hopes she did) and begins to tell her of the jackass in the brothel…

"-Lord Tyrion!" She hisses. "You are accused of hiring a man to slay my son, Bran, in his bed. And of conspiring to kill my sister's husband, Lord Jon Arryn, the Hand of the King."

"Oh... I'm very sorry. I don't know anything about all that."

If it were possible, those Tully eyes harden even more against him, as if trying to glare him into submission. But Tyrion Lannister has never been known to submit to anyone before. Her narrowed gaze scrutinises him moments longer and he must keep the smirk threatening beneath his innocent expression. He eventually parts his lips to mock her ignorance, but her words cut him short, condemning him to speechlessness... "I know."

"I beg your pardon," he says after several moments.

She seems annoyed to have to repeat herself. Resentful even. With a hint of regret. "I know," she huffs. "I know that you are innocent of alI I have accused you of. I wasn't sure before but... I know _now._ "

"If you had reason to doubt me, why arrest me at all?"

"It does not concern you-"

"I beg to differ-"

"Be grateful that I've changed my mind about you, Lannister."

Tyrion narrows his gaze. Whatever she is refusing to tell him, it clearly bothers her quite a fair bit. "Very well then. If you would mind," he raises his bound wrists to her, "These are becoming rather a nuisance. Can't hold my cock straight to take a piss."

He can clearly see the tick of her jaw, hear the grinding of her teeth. She looks like she'd rather strike him than release him. Which is why it irks him when she grins a moment later.

"Unfortunately for you, Lord Tyrion, my sister does not share my opinions of you."

"Perhaps you should convince her-"

"Don't think I haven't. Your brother wounded my husband and is destroying my father's lands. I would give anything to rid this animosity but-"

"-But Lysa Arryn is a stubborn old cow who could give two fucks about anyone other than her precious boy. I dare say she might even let the lad fuck her someday from the way she mollycoddles him."

"How dare you," Lady Stark seethes. "That is my sister, you speak so crudely of."

"I am well aware of this, Lady Stark." She really, truly looks ready to strike him. Throttle him even. In fact, Tyrion would go so far to say that the woman before him, with her temper as fiery as her hair, may actually haul him off the cliffside herself. He wouldn't put it past her. Fortunately for him, she has the honour of a Stark. Sighing a forced breath, he mutters an apology for his rude (but not regretful words).

Catelyn clenches her jaw and only offers him a stiff nod as a sign of acceptance of this. Clearing her throat she begins again, "As I was trying to say, you are now my sister's prisoner. Your fate is under her judgement."

"Then I will be doomed to death, Lady Stark."

"Not unless you submit yourself to a higher power to judge your innocence."

He balks at her. "A trial by combat? You insist I request a trial by combat? Forgive me, my lady, but I was under the assumption that you want my release in order to sever these tensions between our families. Yet now it seems that you'd rather watch I die a bloody and humiliating death," he finishes sardonically.

"You will be released. I haven't forgotten your lack of… combative prowess," she says, eyeing his small stature critically. He raises a challenging brow, "Oh," he replies impatiently.

Her eyes never leaving him, she steps back towards his cellar door. Knocking three times, she then steps away. A moment later, the same grating sound of the door being opened is heard, followed by a heavy set of footsteps to reveal a rather familiar sight.

"Lord Tyrion, I believe you are acquainted with Bronn are you not?"

Tyrion's eyes bounce between the two tall figures. Both wearing similar smug grins. One of which he finds slipping onto his face as he answers, "I believe I am, Lady Stark."


	21. Moments don't last Memories do

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! So I did a few updates to the story in general this week. One: i added OC because of a few complaints. And two: Rating gone up to M. Gasp I know! It's not as innocent as you think. But if I'm being honest, while there's not gonna be explicit smut (as far as I know for now) there is violence, language, supernatural and sexual themes that I think anyone under 15 yrs shouldn't be reading.**

 **Another thing, this chapter will contain spoilers for season 6.**

 **And also some fluff. But mostly tiny, eetsie little angst with some minor exploration of Nadia's gifts.**

 **Now... reviews:**

 **Czarinakristi: I'm glad you're intrigued. Yep Nadia is not a blabber. It will become painfully obvious with time, I think, why she's like that - it's hinted in this chapter a little. I for one think that she could easily blurt out all she knows to these people - as is the case with othsr storiea of this nature - but how inclined would they be to believe her. They say they want to know what she knows but at the same time don't trust her; Cat is a perfect exampls of being privy to Nadia's warnings and still ignoring it. The Twins... yes I look forward to that too.**

 **Jean d'arc: i totally agree with you. I never thought about it like that, but i know how much Tyrion respects Catelyn as he has told Sansa before. I wouldn't say they are working together in this story. Simply Cat learnt of the repercussions of her actions and found that Nadia was true to her word. So out of guilt, to ammend things before they become "set" she arranged for Tyrion's trial to be moved up, and to be a trial by combat, arranging Bronn to fight for Tyrion.**

 **ColdHeartAngel: i PMed you already but for everyone else... i have not considered Nadia attempting to set Robb up with others, namely Margaery or Daeny. Nor will it happen for the reason that Nadia and Robb are endgame at the moment, and also because Daeny's not ready to come to Westeros before season 6; her development is a crucial factor in the storyline and Nadia respects this and doesn't wish to take Daeny of course - that said she will push for an alliance with Daeny at a later stage. Margaery on the other hand is the reason Sansa gets to break away from King's Landing since her wedding is called off and that is something I also want to maintain.**

 **ChildOfDreams: should i take your bewilderment as a compliment, the same way that George R.R. Martin seems to thrive when we question why he continues to kill off characters we love?**

 **Now... onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Gamw of Thrones or any of its characters. These are ths property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **NADIA**

"What are you writing?"

Her fingers still the lead point, her eyes glancing up from the page to meet Bran's. Curiosity shines in his blue eyes as he studies her cursive scrawl from where he rests in Silas Quent's arms. She raises a brow at them both. "Where's Hodor?" she returns. Bran looks over his - or rather Silas' shoulder - to where Hodor chases a leather ball with Bran and Shaggydog around the atrium. "Ah," Nadia says, seeing this.

"Mind if I leave him with you?" Silas inquires politely, belatedly adding "my lady" with a sheepish look.

"Nah, I don' mind." She looks to Bran, with a warm smile, "I'd love the company, seeing as Rickon's ditched me," and then back to Silas, "And I'm no lady." She really stresses the "no" giving him a mock-warning look. The young man returns it with a suppressed grin - trying to look all the part of a serious guard. Of course by this point, Nadia's become a little familiar with some others of Winterfell's guards. At some point Robb has made it known that he'd taken her as a ward; and she supposes that entitles her with a faux nobility, given that most guards and servants she's met in passing have referred to her as Silas has, as a "Lady". Cool at first, but the title had quickly grown to irritate her. Once Theon realised this, he started to tease her about it relentlessly… and it seems some of the younger guards had also taken to doing so. Specifically Silas Quent, who she's come to learn is something of a good friend of the boys.

Not for the first time, she watches him with great intrigue as he walks away from her, wondering what role he has to play in this great game, given his name is not one she recalls from her world. A cynical, morbid part of her wonders how long till he's also dead.

"Well?" Bran's voice catches her attention. Silas settled him onto the bench across from where she sits perched upon the railing astride the atrium yard. "You didn't answer my question."

She looks confused for a short moment, before recalling his curiosity at the pages in her hands. Glancing down she frowns at them, momentarily forgetting what she'd been doing in the first place before the interruption. Clearing her throat, she answers, "Work. For Maester Luwin?"

He tilts his head. "What sort of work?"

"Uhhh, it's kinda boring. Do you really wanna know?"

"Yes."

"Okay… um, well, he's asked me to take a look at some of his notes about his patients. See if I could link it to some of the diseases in my world."

"Have you?"

"A bit, yeah." He nods, curiously staring at the pages in her hands. Swinging herself over the railing, she moves to sit beside him. "See, this person complained of sharp, pain through his chest, neck and jaw. Said it only happened when he was out in the fields. Maester Luwin says the guy was a little on the heavier side, and kept complaining about this for three months before dying suddenly in his sleep."

"Okay… well what did Maester Luwin do?"

"Treated him with milk of the poppy at first. Took away the pain but the guy started to have breathing problems also. So Maester Luwin suggested rest and made draughts using comfrey, wormwood and sometimes grape seed."

"But they didn't work?" Bran says, frowning. He tells her he's heard of this before. A person's heart would stop suddenly from over-exertion. It was common enough amongst farmers down south, having to spend their days toiling away in the hot sun. Usually milk of the poppy would help with the pain but they'd all die eventually. "You're right. It does help with the pain. Just like Maester Luwin put in his notes. But pain isn't a disease on its own. It's an indication that there's an underlying problem with our bodies."

"Then treating the pain wouldn't cure them." If Nadia's honest, she's rather surprised that a ten year old could keep up. But then she's always thought that Bran was a rather clever boy. He may have once aspired to be a great knight, but he's also come across to her as a bit of a bookworm. "What do you think it is?" he asks her.

"Coronary Artery Disease. It occurs when the blood vessels supplying our hearts are occluded. Blocked. See the heart pumps blood to the body by vessels called arteries…" she goes onto sketch a haphazard heart with it branching arteries and converging veins, explaining the mechanism of the cardiovascular system to the ten year old, as if he were first year Medical Student. And just as she suspects, Bran keeps up with her, keen to learn; he has a refreshing thirst for knowledge that makes her think that perhaps it wasn't random that he'd been chosen to inherit the role of Three-Eyed Raven, someday. When she's done with her little lesson, he poses the question, "How do the arteries become occluded?"

"Fat deposits in the arterial lining rupture and harden, forming plaques known as atheromas. These continue to rupture and grow, slowing blocking of the artery an-"

"-And then heart doesn't get adequate blood flow or oxygen so the muscles slowly die. And that causes the pain," he surmises with a nod as if certain of his statement.

Nadia offers him a broad grin, "Exactly?"

"So how do you treat it?"

Her grin slips off. "Unfortunately, most of the treatment is unavailable in this world. But little things can be done. Changing diet. Keeping fit. I've been talking Maester Luwin about the properties of some of the substances he uses with treatment, tryna match them up to medication in my world. So far, I've only been able to identify Grape seed extract for treatment."

An odd look settles over the ten year old's face. One of deep thought. His eyes float away from her towards the sight of his little brother running about, laughing brightly with his games. "How many other diseases have you identified?"

"A few. Not really sure about the number."

He nods again. "Your world sounds so… advanced, compared to ours," Bran says.

A frown tugs at her lips, not quite sure where Bran is going with this. "Bran?"

"Do you… do you think, you could fix me?"

Her heart drops. She says nothing and it causes him to turn those devastatingly blue eyes to her. The hope that dares in shine in them is utterly heartbreaking. But not nearly as heartbreaking as her answer, "No."

He doesn't say another word. He simply stares at her a moment, his face drawing a blank and then turns his gaze away, staring into the space, letting her words rattle about his little head. Nadia lays a careful hand on his shoulder, rubbing gentle circles into it. She's not blind to the quivering pout at his lips, to the watery gaze he tries to hide from her. "Bran," she whispers gently, pityingly almost. "My world is making leaps and bounds to overcome what you have. But at the moment we're still decades away from a cure - at the very least. Some things are just… irreversible."

A tear trails down his cheek. "Hey," she tugs at his chin, entreating him to face her. He does so reluctantly, but still refuses to draw his gaze up to her own. "Bran, just 'cause you can't walk, doesn't mean you still do incredible things with your life. You're a Stark. Starks are fighters, leaders."

"A cripple can't be either."

"Who says? You can do whatever you put your mind to. You're a smart kid, Bran. You have an imagination like nobody else. You'll figure it out. I know you will."

A couple quiet seconds hangs in the air between them, only disturbed by the sound of Rickon's laughter, Shaggydog's wild barks and Hodor's "Hodor!". But finally, Bran does muster the strength to meet her gaze. And when he does, he asks, "It's my sight isn't it? The dreams I have? The Three Eyed Raven? There's a purpose for it all, isn't there?" When she doesn't answer, he continues, "He told me you wouldn't say anything. The Three Eyed Raven did."

Nadia can't help the flush she feels. Nor the small weight of guilt in her stomach. It's one thing knowing what the others will or won't do. It's another for someone else to predict her own actions. "Oh really? What else did he tell you?"

"That we're connected."

She frowns at this. Hell no. She does not want to be connected to the shit storm that's coming. And especially if heralds notions of pedophilia on her part. Bran's cute. But in a he's my baby brother sorta way, not the boyfriend-material way. "What do you mean?"

Bran shrugs. "He didn't say. Just that our roads lead to the same place."

"And what is that place, exactly?"

"I don't know." He says it too quickly though. Not to mention he looked at his feet.

"Bran," she pushes, her voice taking on a stern edge that would have made Catelyn Stark proud.

"What does it mean?" he rebuts, refusing to answer question.

"What are you talking about?"

"Why did the Three-Eyed Raven come to me?"

She shakes her head. "I don't know." Because she honestly doesn't. She knows he chooses Bran. She knows what Bran will come to learn. She knows that he has a role in the War against the Dead. But why him? Well… "Honestly, that's like me asking why I of all people got dropped into your world and why I all of sudden can see death. It's a mystery. But it's something we gotta deal with, and hope that someday we get the answers we want. Figure our way out of this mess."

Bran nods again, his face assuming that look of deep thought once more. "Do you think the Three Eyed Raven has all the answers?" he asks again after a moment.

She grins sombrely. "I bet he does. And if he's anything like me, he'll probably tell fuckall."

Her eyes widen. "Don't tell your brother I'm teaching you bad words."

Bran grins. "I won't." Nadia releases a breath of relief. Robb just barely tolerates her let alone likes her, apart from a few moments of lingering affection (no doubt just him being a gentleman and her being undeniably attracted to him because, fuck it, he is hot even if his attitude is a bit stiff towards her). Bran's voice breaks her out of those thoughts: "But how much are you really not telling us?"

She stutters, managing only a few "ums" and "wells" before being interrupted by the sound of a door slamming open and enraged footsteps storming towards them. The young woman barely gets a glance at their new companions when a rough hand winds its way around her upper arm, drawing her to feet and slamming her against the nearest wall. She barely hears the sound of her papers fluttering to the grounds, her charcoal rolling along the stone; she barely hears Rickon's and Bran's shouts of surprise, nor a familiar Ironborn ordering Hodor to take Rickon away. She's far too caught up in the dark eyes - reflecting her own - crinkled with fury, with disappointment; a dread rises in her and catches in her throat - a dread that she'd once thought she'd never feel again. 'It's not him! It can't be…' another hand grips her right shoulder, it's grip so tight she fears it might break through her skin, holding her in place, pushing her harder against the wall.

Her captor's asking her, no, hissing questions at her. His voice low, dangerous. His voice quivering with anger. But all she hears is white-noise. Nadia's far too paralysed in shock, in memories she'd spent months burying. The grip on her tightens unbearably so. He shakes her harshly, her head colliding with the wall once again. Another wave of adrenalin floods through her again. 'Run!' Her mind screams at her body. 'Run you idiot! Run!' but she stays frozen.

"Answer me!" the man shakes her again. This time it works to dissipate the fog before her eyes. Those brown eyes, so unbelievably like her own, swirl torridly, melting away into a pair of startling sapphire blue. She wants to release a breath of relief but her heart's still pounding in fear at the eerily familiar situation. A gloved hand settles on Robb's shoulder firmly. "Robb," Theon says, but the Stark simply rolls the Ironborn's hand off his shoulder, unwilling to tear his heated glare from her face. "Well?" he growls impatiently. Her brows furrow a little, confused by his question. Confused by this all.

Bran's voice rings clear in that moment, "Stop it! Stop! Can't you see you're frightening her?"

She watches Robb reluctantly tear his gaze away, a look of bemusement crossing his features as he glances at his brother then back to her again. As if her skin is fire, he snatches his hands from her immediately but does nothing to retreat from her personal space. Robb fixes her again with that glare of his, disappointment and hurt weighing heavily in his eyes. "My father is in prison. I could have warned him." Something catches in her throat. Nadia can barely muster a sound let alone words to express herself. Hell she barely has a coherent thought now. All she knows is the sound of her pounding heart, the feeling of blood rushing to her head, the sensation of drowning overwhelming her. "Do you have nothing to say?" Robb growls, slamming his hand against the wall just beside her head. Nadia flinches. She can't help it. He snarls at her smaller figure. Disgusted by the very sight of her. "Get out of my sight," he hisses lowly.

She doesn't stop to nod, ducking beneath his hand to make her quick escape. She's speed walking, jogging, running. It's not till she feels safe - as safe as she can - behind her chamber doors, does she she releases a shuddering breath. Her back collapses against the wood, and it's only then that she realises her cloak - Robb's cloak has fallen away at some point during her mad dash. Her navy blue cardigan hangs practically off her shoulders completely, like the flimsy rag it is.

Collapsing against the foot of her cot, Nadia brings her knees up to her chest. She doesn't wonder where things could have gone wrong. Doesn't wonder at her own stupidity for breaking the rules she'd permitted herself to keep all for nought. Those thoughts will burden her mind much later that night.

For now, the girl holds herself and wills away memories of what once was the darkest hours of her old life. She tells herself, with an aching heart, that she is safe.

At duskfall, the ravens took the sky. Nadia watched from her cot, a blank expression upon her face; the familiar feeling of defeat in her stomach. Now hours later, with skies black and the moon blazing white in all its lunar glory, Nadia finds herself unwilling to seek the comfort of her bed and a sketchpad in her hands. No, her mind is far too restless.

Seems someone else is too, given the knock at her door. For a moment, she considers not answering, afraid it's Robb come to shout his frustrations at her. Then again, she might as well get it over with. She doubts he'd be forgiving her silence any time soon, especially should Ned Stark bite the dust. Granting entrance to whoever it is, Nadia turns her attention back to the flames. The cold is slowly becoming more than she was accustomed to back in Melbourne, and she's been forced to stay indoors more often, the fireplace burning nearly 24 hours most days now, just to keep hypothermia at bay. Sighing into the heat, she almost scoffs incredulously at the misted breath that escapes her lips.

Behind her, the door scrapes against the stone floor - another aggravating factor to her coldness - as it opens and shuts. Glancing over her shoulder, she catches Rickon's eyes, throwing him a welcoming grin. Tilting her head, she gestures for him to come join her by the flames and he hurries to her side, Shaggydog padding at his side. The little six year old assumes his place curled against her side, her arms wrapping around his tiny figure pulling him closer to the share in the heat of the fireplace. True he's more accustomed to Winterfell's chills than her, but still she can feel the shiver of his cold skin.

Shaggydog nuzzles against her hand, resting his head on her thigh. Nadia sends the small beast a soft smile, her fingers brushing through his soft fur, black as her own hair. One emerald eye stares up at her briefly before turning back to the fire. 'That's one thing from the books,' she thinks to herself. She'd been surprised by how little from the books actually translates into this world; as far as she's concerned the TV series holds more truth, even how everyone looks is almost identical to the actors cast as them, save for a few features here and there. The only real differences from the show, that she's noticed, is that Robb's hair is lighter, only just appearing more like his mother's rather than almost black as in the show, and longer too; in fact he looks rather like Cossimo Medici. Theon looks almost like he does in season 6, save for the lacking tortured look in his eye… it almost kills Nadia to see them so lively and joking and kind, knowing how far they both will have fallen.

Rickon huffs, nuzzling his head into the crook of her neck. This isn't the first time the littlest Stark's come knocking at her door, restless and missing his mother's touch. Sometimes she even finds herself wandering the halls to Bran's room, following Summer who'd been pawing at her door to get her attention. She thought it'd irritate her but truthfully she never slept much before anyway and she genuinely enjoys the boys' company. While Rickon is still childish, he reminds her of all the fun she'd have playing pretend at his age; Bran on the other hand, with a curious mind, is quickly maturing and keeps her fascinated with his questions and stories.

Rubbing Rickon's arm, she quietly asks, "What's wrong?"

He sniffles, lips pouting in a fashion that brings to mind a kicked puppy. "Father and the girls left. Jon left. Then Mother left. Now Robb's going to leave. No one's going to be here."

That confirms the ravens then. Robb really is going to war. 'What an impulsive prick,' she thinks bitterly but without any passion; her guilt simply weighs in more on her.

"That's not true," she coos, brushing at his tears. "You'll have Bran and Shaggydog and Maester Luwin and Hodor."

"And you?" His blue eyes bore into hers innocently. Hopeful. Biting her lip, she goes to nod but pauses. Would she? Could she? Knowing what she knows… "I don't know."

His tiny hand grips hers tight. "Promise me," he begs, "Promise me you won't leave us also."

"What does your father say about promises?"

"Never make a promise you can't keep."

She nods, a bittersweet smile dancing on her lips as she looks at his sad, sweet face. His lips tremble and she fears he'll pull away from her, just as he did Catelyn all those weeks ago. But he doesn't. Perhaps it's as he says, he's too afraid to lose anyone else. "Why does Robb have to go? Why can't he order someone else to go?"

Tan fingers brushing back his curly locks, she sighs. "You know why," she mutters. Pouting again, Rickon nods. "Because our way is the old way," he answers. Humming softly, she offers him a tight smile, hoping it will offer his some comfort in this truth. At the back of her mind, the cogs begin to turn however. Rickon has posed her a question she's been struggling to answer for some time now. Should she follow Robb into battle and bloodshed, knowing his tragedy has already written itself, or should she stay behind in Winterfell, protect the boys to the best of her abilities and aid Bran in his destiny with the White Walkers, whatever that may be. She doubts she can do much for an entire army, especially when the leader refuses to trust even when she doesn't give him reason not to. Rickon on the other hand… she can protect him Ramsay's arrow. For starters, she'll have to teach him to duck and weave.

Her brooding is interrupted by Rickon shuffling under the cloak to readjust himself, so that he's leaning against her more. "Will you sing me another lullaby?" His big blue eyes plea with her and in a moment of weakness she finds herself giving into his pout. How on Earth Robb managed to put up with that manipulative look for so many years, from nearly all of his siblings, she will never understand. Wrapping her arm around him, she pulls him closer to her; resting a hand on his head, her fingers play with his curly auburn locks as she begins to hum a tune…

"Maybe some moments aren't so perfect

Maybe some memories not so sweet

But we have to know some bad times

Or our lives are incomplete

Then when the shadows overtake us

Just when we feel all hope is gone

We'll hear our song and know once more

Our love lives on

How does a moment last forever?

How does our happiness endure?

Through the darkest of our troubles

Love is beauty, love is pure

Love pays no mind to desolation

It flows like a river through the soul

Protects, perceives, and perseveres

And makes us whole

Minutes turn to hours, days to years and gone

But when all else has been forgotten

Still our song lives on

How a moment lasts forever

When our song lives on…"

At some point she stops singing, her exhaustion causing her to drop into a hum as her gaze steadies on the hearth. Soft breaths fill the silent atmosphere. Smiling gently, she drops a kiss onto the bright auburn curls. He seems so peaceful, his cherub face so innocent. She misses that. Misses being a child. Her fingers brush at the point between his brows. No crease, no crinkle. 'Peaceful dreams, then,' she imagines. Stroking his cheek, she can't help but wonder what his young mind must be dreaming. Her peace is interrupted by a burning sensation behind her eyes. White clouds her vision of the sleeping boy in her arms, something akin to camera flares blinding her. Nadia shuts her eyes, shielding them with her right arm. It's a long while till the burning fades and she removes her arm, dropping it into her lap. Her lap where Rickon no longer lies. "Rickon?" she glances up to see where the little boy could be hiding, only to find the walls of her room have melted away into a beautiful summer's day in the Winterfell tilt yard. "What the fuck?" she breathes, turning in a circle. She hears laughter behind her and turns.

The fireplace flickers as before, casting fantastical shadows against the stone floor. Nadia blinks quickly. Her room is as it is. Rickon sound asleep in her lap. Shaggydog wags his tail, tilting his head curiously at her as if to ask her "What just happened?"

She shakes her head at herself. Slowly untangling herself from Rickon, Nadia picks up the six year old and moves to the door.

Once he's safely tucked in his own bed in his own room, she pops her head into Bran's room. He too is sound asleep; his face is peaceful, sweet in the little moonlight that shines into the room. Nadia allows a small smile on her face at the sight.

Her back stiffens, sensing the presence of another behind. Quickly shutting the door, Nadia spins on the spot to face her companion… only to come face to face with no one. She could have sworn though…

Perhaps her gifts are beginning to affect her sanity. She scoffs at that. 'Beginning.'

She turns down the hallway, slowly making her way back to her chambers. She'd noticed how empty the hallways were before, save a few guards wandering about, but now without Rickon's soft snores and Shaggydog's padding feet, the halls are absolutely silent. Hauntingly so.

A cool breeze brushes against her, goosebumps prickling her tawny skin. Nadia wraps her arms around herself, her fingers working hard to rub some heat into her skin. She silently scolds herself for not thinking to throw on a cardigan at the very least.

A shuddering sigh escapes her pouted lips. She's so cold that her breath turns to fog. Another breeze winds itself through the tunnels, brushing her back once again, few tendrils of her dark hair fluttering against her cheeks. Her feet come to a stop.

'Tunnels?'

Dark shadows stretch over the walls, encapsulating her in blackness. The only light is that of the torchlight every ten metres of so, threatening to dissipate into tufts of smoke with every little gust of wind that winds itself down the stairwell and corners of this house of the dead. For the second time this night, she exclaims quietly to herself, "What the fuck?"

'How...?'

How is a good question indeed. However seeing it is one she finds herself asking increasingly recently without a decent answer to show for it, she tries not to dwell on it so much. Instead she decides against her better judgement to explore. 'This is the point in the horror films where the pretty girl gets hacked to pieces by a murderous psychopath. Good thing I'm not that pretty,' she thinks, somewhat humourously.

Grave upon grave she passes. Nadia barely spares a glance at the statues and plaques of the deceased. They all say the same thing: Stark.

Some are Kings. Some merely lords.

All dead.

It sends a shiver up a spine. Nope. Just another breeze.

"Promise me..."

Nadia's head snaps behind her.

"Promise me..."

To the right.

"Promise me..."

To the left... which is just a brick wall. She frowns.

"Promise me..." the woman's voice echoes again.

Straight ahead Nadia deduces. Again, against her better judgement she follows it. But the further she goes, the softer it gets, escaping her ears. She tries to hasten herself, ears straining to lock in on the mystery woman, but eventually all she hears is silence.

"Great," she mutters to herself. "Hmmm... definitely losing my fucking mind," Nadia grunts. She goes to turn back and try to find her way out these catacombs, when her eyes befall the grave next to her.

Damn.

She could almost imagine long, curly locks, as dark as her own but far more elegant; dark gray eyes, appearing as cold as obsidian one moment, then as wild and tempestuous as a raging storm the next; and of course a crown of blue roses.

Lyanna Stark.

'The woman with all the real secrets,' Nadia whistles. In all honesty, she dislikes Lyanna. She was a selfish homewrecker that caused an entire country to go to war for her so-called honour. A little Helen of Troy. At least Helen had the decency to admit that her betrayal (if it could be called one, given that she was basically hypnotised by Aphrodite) was a shameful act.

The only good thing to come of Lyanna was Jon.

Nadia releases a deep breath. "If only you could talk," she whispers to the marble-like face, "...what would you say? Shed some light on this cluster-fuck of a story I'm stuck in?"

The stone eyes seem to bore into hers and, for a frightenjng moment, Nadia almost believes that Lyanna's ghost would actually make itself known to her. But the moment passes all too soon. Nadia sighs, a sad grin tugging at her lips. "You got out good, yaknow. 'M almost jealous of ya. Wherever the hell you are, you can just sit back and watch the game. Promise it'll be a killer." The girl briefly chuckles but the sobres up quickly. Clearing her throat she adds softly, "Bad joke. Sorry."

Pursing her lips, she feels awkward all of a sudden. As if this is an actual conversation with an actually human being.

Yup. Definitely crazy.

"Well," she forces out. Her fist curls, resting gently on the other woman's grave.

It's the last thing she remembers.

When Nadia comes to, she's back in her cot. Her black cloak draped over her gently.

* * *

 **A/N ... Well... few little hints in there. Like what did Nadia do to attempt to change the story despite initially not wanting to? And why not tell Robb? PLEASE Review to lemme know what else you found and what you think. And if you likey, don't forget to follow :D.**


	22. Tonight we Feast

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello my lovely readers... I wanna thank you guys soooo much! We have reached 115 followers for this story! I am so happy and proud. I apologise for the late chapter; i was working the weekend and didn't get a chance to work on this chapter until today. I'm gonna be honest, the next few chapters may also be delayed from their usual one week posting, as I have back-to-back placement and exams over the next month, but I will try my best to get them out to you. That said, over the past couple of days I've come up with a plot twist that deviates greatly from my original idea for this story (at least in some parts)... so taking this into account, pls don't hate me if postings are slow. I can promise this, from the next chapter onwards, the story will really be picking up pace, going into the war. There will be more drama, more angst, more POVs, more magic and more romance! And even a few flashbacks, especially with Cat - I really love her and Ned and I wish the show had more of them together.**

 **Moving on... reviews...**

 **Katie B: I know. I was telling someone else that I had originally plotted this story to be set from June/July 2016; but amongst other things, Beauty and the Beast 2017, made me push Nadia's Date of Disappearance (DoD) to June/July 2017. And the songs and references won't end there. Keep a look out. I know I've definitely already used a line or two from some of my favourite shows. If you recognise them, feel free to point it out;D**

 **Child of Dreams: thanks**

 **Now... onto the story!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **BRAN**

His fingers fumble with the ties of his doublet but, after three frustrating attempts, he is finally successful. Smoothing down the leather over his chest, he releases a sigh of annoyance at the sight of his unkempt hair. Normally he wouldn't care, but tonight he wants to look noble, look the part of a Lord of Winterfell, for Robb. But no Lord stares back at him from the mirror's depths, only a broken little boy.

The door creaks, drawing his eyes to meet hers in the mirror glass. "Well don't you look handsome," she says, her eyes running over his small form scrutinizingly, hauntingly as his mother's used to. Pushing away from where she leans against his doorway, Nadia strides up to Bran, forcing him to crane his neck just to look up at her. He lets her fingers run through his auburn mane; when she's satisfied she steps back with a small nod of approval. "There. Now you look like a Lord."

"I'm no Lord. I'm just a boy."

"So is Robb."

"Robb is almost eighteen. He's a man," Bran argues, pouting at his reflection.

"Where I come from, you're not a man or woman until you're eighteen. Erego, Robb is a child compared to me."

"Says the woman who runs about playing games with my six year old brother," he fires back coyly. All he receives is a shake of her head. "Touche, Lord Stark."

Bran snaps, "I'm not a Lord yet!"

Refusing to meet her eyes, Bran drops his gaze to his fingers idly plucking at the trilling hem of his bed sheets. For some time neither of them speak a word but he can feel her eyes boring into the back of his head. Suddenly he feels guilty for snapping at her, even more so for making her feel guilty about it. He doesn't have to see her to know she's probably berating herself for teasing him and perhaps thinking a million miles a minute of how to remedy this awkwardness.

"I'm sorry," she whispers after a moment or two. Taking a deep breath, she splurges, "I'm sorry that I haven't been honest. I'm sorry I couldn't stop your dad being arrested. I'm sorry that I can't convince Robb to not go war. And I'm sorry that all this responsibility has to fall on your shoulders."

Bran remains silent a moment, but he can see it in the way she avoids looking at him that she's wracked with nerves, waiting for an answer… and hopefully his forgiveness. "What about leaving us?"

Her brown eyes widen with surprise as she looks at him. He shoots her a look as if to say don't lie to me.

Nadia sighs. "Rickon told you?"

"No. You just did."

The corner of her lips quirk in almost amusement at his cunning. Shaking her head, she replies, "I honestly don't know if I'm going or staying. Robb could use the medical hand-"

"It's more than that, though. Isn't it?"

Nadia drops her gaze to her hands. Her eyebrows crinkle together and she bites her lip, shaking her head slightly, as though internally arguing with herself. Finally she just shrugs and says, "Maybe. I don't know."

Bran doesn't like the silence. He changes the topic... "Last night I dreamed I could walk again. I was walking in the snow. There was nothing and no one for miles except..." Bran's voice trails off.

In the mirror he catches Nadia's curious expression, flooded with worry that she barely manages to conceal behind her dark orbs. "Except what?" She urges.

He bites his lip nervously, a habit he's seems to have picked up from her. Continuing to twirl the wool tendrils of his sheet, Bran slowly states, "Except for the weirwood tree." When Nadia says nothing, he's forced to meet her gaze. She's actively avoiding meeting his eyes, acting as if he's said nothing of importance. Narrowing his eyes suspiciously, he asks, "It means something, doesn't it? I could feel it calling to me." Bran keeps hoping for a proper answer from her for once, one that is less vague than whatever nonsense the Three Eyed Raven has been giving him so far. He's beginning to realise how infuriating it must be for Robb and thinks that perhaps his brother's accusations of the girl is not so outlandish as he'd thought. Perhaps Robb was right to shout at her. Perhaps Robb had been right to consider turning her away from their home. The banshee owes them a few good truths for the courtesy they've given her.

But then Bran remembers what the Three-Eyed Raven had said about her: trust her. And if he's completely honest with himself, in the weeks since he's woken up, he's enjoyed no other company more than he has hers. The banshee has become his friend, which means putting up with her vague answers about everything. It's a good thing she can tell a good story.

That's the reason he doesn't further push when Nadia dismisses his question, vaguely answering he'll understand someday... "just not today, sweetie."

Still, he can't say he's not a little disappointed. Huffing, Bran pouts at her, which only works to draw out an amused smirk from Nadia.

It's only then that he realises what she's wearing. No doubt it will earn her a few curious looks from his fath-Robb's bannermen. "Aren't you going to change?"

"For what?"

"The bannermen will be arriving any time now."

"Aaand?" she drawls, not quite following.

"And you're Robb's ward. You need to be dressed respectably to receive guests."

Nadia frowns. "Um, Bran… I'm not receiving the bannermen. It's not a good idea. And I doubt your brother would want me there anyway."

The sound of the door opening steals his rebuttal and the sight of his eldest brother all but slams his jaw shut. In that split second, Robb's face turns from a friendly greeting to stoic, his blue eyes flickering to the banshee.

Nadia immediately rises from the bed, awkwardly crossing her hands in front of her. She nods silently at Robb, obviously unsure if she should talk or not. He doesn't reply, simply side-stepping from the door. It's clear then what Robb is trying to say: Get out.

Without another word or gesture, the girl steals herself away from the room without any grace, unable to avoid knocking her knee and elbow on Bran's bed post and the door frame respectfully.

Robb looks at him as if the awkward moment never even occurred. "Come on, then. They first of the bannermen have been sighted."

Bran's reminded of the King's arrival, when Robb first takes him down to the courtyard. This thought does nothing to placate his nervous stomach. Robb has him propped upon his mare, allowing Bran to keep height with most of those to greet him; he stands at Robb's right, again infusing in Bran that he is the heir, the next acting Lord of Winterfell. To Robb's left is Theon, ever the dutiful friend. Bran frowns when he looks down to the empty space at his side. He turns to Robb, to see the eldest Stark also frowning at the spot. Robb turns to Maester Luwin and quickly whispers something that has the Maester Luwin hurrying away. Normally Bran would find this funny, just the way they'd all had a bit of a giggle when Arya had run across the family line, wearing Jory's helmet. But the twisting knots in his gut, not to mention the thinly veiled nervousness that Robb wears cuts all amusement from Bran. At the far end of the courtyard, the gates are wide open. From here, Bran is yet to see the first signs of the bannermen to parade through. But he does hear the hoofbeats of their horses. Sounds like hundreds, thousands at the very least. Theon had mentioned that Winterfell would be housing roughly eight thousand men at most. Bran doesn't think he's ever seen the ancient castle that crowded. Yet a small part of him can't help but feel it would still be empty.

Minutes pass by, when the sound of hurried footsteps approach Bran. Three pairs to be exact. Maester Luwin takes his place behind Robb, Rickon by Bran. The third whispers something to Rickon, of which Bran manages to catch, "behave." When Nadia straightens up, she tries to slip away, but Rickon's hand tightens on hers, the other grabbing her cardigan. "Rickon," she hisses, less out of anger and more out of exasperation. She keeps glancing behind Bran, so he turns to just glimpse Robb's heated glare (and behind that, Theon and Silas' amused ones). Robb's about to chastise them no doubt when Lord Umber's entourage arrive through the gates. Robb shoots them all a look that shouts behave, his glare lingering a little longer on the banshee, before turning his attention to the Greatjon.

The man is every bit the hulk, that Bran has heard in the stories. When he slaps Robb in the back, Bran fears his brother will be thrown face first into the mud. "Robb! Or should I say Lord Stark. It's good to see you boy." Robb grasps the older man's forearm, matching the Greatjon's grin. "Aye, Lord Umber," he begins, "If only the circumstances were not so dire."

"Aye boy. I'd rather fuck Walder Frey's daughters and the old arse himself than see that Lannister whore and her runt disgrace the North," the Greatjon says vehemently. The man's words raise a chorus of "Ayes" and "Yeas". The Greatjon turns to the side, sizing up Theon; the Ironborn unabashedly meets his elder's heated gaze, unnerved seemingly by the scrutiny in them.

"Greyjoy," Greatjon spits the name as if it is acid on his tongue.

Bran's surprised by the decency and respect with which his friend greets Lord Umber - and judging by the look on Robb's face, so is he. "I hear you're a shot to beat, Ironborn. If you're truly half as good as I remember, Lord Stark is lucky to have you." Speechless, Theon simply offers a curt but gracious nod.

The rest of Greatjon's main entourage begin to introduce themselves, as Lord Umber himself moves down towards himself and Rickon. The large man slaps Bran on the shoulder, and he's all but thankful that he's not fallen from his mare. "On top of tha' horse there, why you look like any other soldier m'boy." Bran nods with a wide grin. Lord Umber moves down to Rickon next.

It doesn't go unnoticed by most that his baby brother shrinks away from Greatjon's intimidating figure. His bright auburn locks waving in the breeze as Rickon turns to bury his head in Nadia's side, as he normally would have done with their mother's skirts. Nadia's startled expression would be almost comical if the Greatjon had not just fixed a rather scrutinising look on her, seeing her for the first time.

Besides him, Bran's noticed that Robb and Anders Cree, one of Greatjon's wards, have stopped conversing.

Nadia avoids looking in anyone's eye as she pats Rickon on the back then pulls him away. Holding him close by, she crouches down and looks him in the eye. "It's okay," she tells him softly. "These are nice men." Rickon shoots her a look as if to say he doesn't quite agree with her, to which Nadia responds with a stern look her gentle smile still ever present… "Come on. Don't be rude."

Rickon sighs, turning himself away. He drags his feet back over to the Greatjon, who fixes him with raised brow. "Hello, Lord Umber, welcome to Winterfell."

The Greatjon ruffles his hair, chuckling a little. "Aye, I scared yer off did I? Forgive me, lad," he says with the broad, friendly smile he'd given Bran. Rickon's nerves seem to dwindle at this, and he returns the man's smile.

Right when Bran thinks that Lord Umber will move back to his horse, the large man looks up at Nadia. He sidesteps Rickon, stopping just in front of her. "And who might this lass be?"

Nadia gapes a little, clearly not expecting the attention. She stutters, "um, I-um-I'm-"

"Nadia Bastian, my ward," Robb interrupts, stepping up next to the girl, giving her a forced smile that turns more genuine as he faces the Greatjon. "Nadia here is apprenticing with Maester Luwin-"

"A woman for a Maester?" The Greatjon scoffs aloud, earning a few chuckles from the silent courtyard.

Bran sees the insulted look upon the woman's face, sees her fists curl as she's forced to tuck them behind her back. Robb must notice as well for he lays a hand at her back, which to most onlookers would appear as common as a father guiding his daughter, but from Bran's position, he can see the way Robb's fist is curled into her knitted blouse. It does nothing to still her tongue, though… "Physician and midwife actually. And I wouldn't say apprenticing so much as two academics exchanging knowledge to further one's own medical practice," this last bit is obviously meant for Robb, though her dark gaze is firmly directed at the Greatjon's. The man in question smiles at her confidence and her unflinching expression, daring him to make another misogynistic remark. He doesn't, something for which Bran is thankful. He's seen Nadia and Theon banter about such things once or twice before… he doubts it would look good on Robb if she does that now with the Lord of Last Hearth. Northerners tend to be stubborn.

Robb seems to take her remark in good swing, but Bran knows his brother better than that. Shooting her another forced smile, the eldest Stark says, "That is what I meant, of course." Nadia just shoots him an annoyingly bright smile.

Bran wonders if the two of them are aware that the tension between them is palpable by those in the vicinity. Greatjon, clears his throat. Taking Nadia's right hand, he raises it to his lips as he bows his head. "Well then, pleasure ta meet you, milady."

"Oh you don-" she cuts herself off with a grunt. Robb raises his brows innocently. "I mean, lovely ta meet ya too."

"Brandon," the boy in question steals his attention to Anders Cree.

"Anders," he nods. The man moves on, and so do the rest. Robb had reassumed his position between Bran and Theon, and Nadia had been moved up to the front at Rickon's side - the six year old still holding her hand with a tight grasp.

Bran is rather bored by the time they've greeted their bannermen. His boredom had only been placated by Nadia or Theon who would roll their eyes or pull a funny expression (discretely so as to not catch Robb's attention) whenever they'd made eye contact with each other or Bran. Rickon had been the one to almost give them away, his giggles poorly muffled.

When the servants move to assist the last of the Lords staying within the castle, Bran releases a breath of relief. He relaxes into his saddle, his back a little sore from trying to maintain proper posture for so long.

Robb and Theon are busy speaking the Greatjon, Lord Karstark and one his sons - Torrhen, if Bran recalls correctly. Nadia tries to make a bit of a getaway, but is stopped halfway towards the steps by Robb's resonating voice, "Lady Nadia, a moment of your time."

Bran winces. He's heard that tone before. From his mother. Robb's about to give her a tongue lashing, no doubt. He supposes that the banshee has come to the same conclusion, for he hears her cuss under her breath. Sullenly she returns to her place by Bran's side; Rickon has managed to slip away.

"I thought you said you weren't coming?" Bran asks her lowly, the pair of them watching Robb with the others.

"I wasn't, but then Rickon was throwing a tantrum and kept saying he wouldn't come if I wasn't there, and he wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Well he is a Stark," Bran quips.

Nadia glares at him playfully, pouting like a child. "I've noticed," she says drily.

"You didn't get changed."

"I didn't have time. And it's not like I own Westerosi clothes. Speaking of clothes, I'm pretty your brother-"

"Which one?"

"The old one. Pretty sure he left a hole in this. And it's my favourite sweater!" she fumes quietly. Bran tilts his head at her. She rolls her eyes and huffs, "Okay fine, it's the only one I've got on me, but still… respect the fashion."

"... You're odd."

She beams, "Thanks."

He opens this mouth to say something, when they're suddenly joined by Robb and Theon. Theon looks her up and down. "Subtle," he winks at her.

"Bite me."

"Gladly. Time and place?"

"Theon," Robb growls. The Ironborn smirks but silences himself. The eldest Stark turns his attention back to Nadia. For a moment they all wait the tongue lashing… "Rickon was throwing a tantrum?"

Nadia flounders for a second. "Um, yes?" she answers, giving Robb an uncertain look.

"Are you unsure?"

"No?" He raises his brow at her. "No," she repeats, firmly this time.

Robb nods. "I'll see you at the feast tonight," he says finally, shoving past her, Theon behind him.

"Wait, what?" Nadia questions, truly looking like a lost welp.

Robb stops and turns to her. "As a ward of Winterfell, it is expected by the bannermen that you will attend the feast. Is that understood?"

"Yeah, but-"

"It's a formal occasion. Wear a dress. We are not a barbarians, here." And with that the two men disappeared inside.

"... Did he just call me a barbarian?" she looks to Bran. He shrugs.

"What are you going to do?"

She sighs, crossing her arms. "I don't know if it's fate, or coincidence or sheer dumb luck, but I might just happen to have an Ava up my sleeve."

"What's an Ava?"

* * *

When Hodor brings Bran into the Dining Hall, the feast already seems to be in full swing; men are laughing, sloshing their drinks as they greet each other and slowly take to their seats while servants are hustling about, setting out the food still. Robb sits at the head of the main table, Theon on the side to his left, and two spare seats on the side to Robb's right. Hodor sets him down next to his brother, who looks up at that moment. "Thank you Hodor. Why don't retire for the night. I'll take Bran back later."

"Hodor," Hodor nods, his smile never leaving his face as he nods enthusiastically and exits the room.

"You look good," Robb tells him.

"You look nervous," Bran returns, earning chuckles from both his brother and the Ironborn. "Nervous..." Robb sighs, running a hand through his hair, "Suppose you think I'm way in over my head here," he subtly gestures around the room to their boisterous guests.

"Nonsense!" Theon slaps his best friend's back. "We'll kill that prick of Lions' spawn and bring your Lord father Home," as he spoke, his voice grew louder a little, attracting the attention of some near them, who raised their mugs in agreeance and cheers.

Bran watches his brother gulp down some of that precious Arbor red, a smirk on the older boy's lips as they listen to Theon list all the... surprises he has in store for Joffrey. Perhaps Bran isn't hiding the way he eyes the wine with fascination mingled curiosity, because one moment later Robb's placing a small goblet in front of him. Bran's gaze shifts between the drink and his brother suspiciously, half expecting the wine to disappear if he reaches for it. The reaction causes Robb to shake his head with stifled amusement. "Go on," Robb nods towards the wine, "If I can entrust Winterfell to you, then you are old enough to have your first taste of wine."

Grey eyes flash down, before he hesitantly reaches for the cup. Taking it into his hands, Bran studies its liquid contents, finding a rippling reflection of himself. The scent is enticingly sweet and so, with a little less hesitation he takes a long slow sip. Just as he thought, the wine is sweet on his tongue, but with a tangy bitterness he's unsure whether he likes or not. Robb makes a comment that he's finally become a man, but their attention is drawn to Theon who bears the look of a deer caught in archer's range. Bran hears the Ironborn exhale, "Gods have mercy," and turns his gaze to where Theon's is.

Standing just outside the doors, half hidden in the shadows they cast, Nadia shifts nervously from side to side. Even from here, Bran can make out she's biting her lips. Reluctantly, she steps forward slowly, letting the candlelight of the Dining Hall wash over her, and approaches their end of the table, stubbornly avoiding eye contact with the other guests who may turn to look.

It's only once she's standing at his side, that Bran is able to finally appreciate Theon's awe at seeing her.

A black evening gown with cap sleeves she's donned. If not for the plunging neckline, Bran would call it modest, but as she'd come closer and turned in towards her seat, he'd noticed the cutouts around the bodice, exposing far too much skin than appropriate in the North. In an effort to be modest, she's latched on her cloak at the choker, but with the way it sways as she walks, it does little to help.

Her obsidian eyes are drawn as per usual, a simple cat-eye appearance, and her lips stained the slightest tint of burgundy; it adds a sharp edge to her otherwise soft and slightly childish features.

Nadia nods at him in greeting, a shy blush staining her cheeks and a bashful smile playing at her lips. "You look beautiful... better than a Lady," Bran compliments her sweetly, causing her face to redden a little bit more, though her expression is more grateful than embarrassed now. Nadia's dark eyes then flicker above his head and a small bemused frown quickly paints her face. Following her gaze, he sees Robb's risen from his seat. Awkwardly the older boy glances down at Theon, who's smirking up at him with a knowing glint in his eye, realising that he alone stood for their female companion.

Frowning, Robb brings himself to Nadia's side before she can take a seat. His hand wraps around her bare arm firmly, forcing her to meet his gaze. They speak lowly to one another. Judging by their expressions, it's not very pleasant; Bran thinks he hears the words "respectable" and "whore" but can't be certain. Robb reassumes his seat, not bothering to look Nadia's way as she stares at him, an affronted expression loosely guised behind those dark eyes. Bran swears he sees her jaws clench, but then she throws on a bright smile and takes her seat. Her hand quickly reaches for her goblet and downs the wine, her face pinching with disappointment as she eyes the drink as if it's betrayed her.

Biting back his confusion, Bran slips himself another sip of sweet Arbor wine, settling himself in for what he can only assume will be a long night.

"Well, don't you look ravishing," Theon says. "My lady," he adds with a wink.

"Fuck off," she whispers into her goblet, lowly for none but Bran to hear.

"What's with the face?" Theon asks.

"What d'ya mean?" she frowns.

"I mean the paint? Bit more than usual."

She looks accosted. "I'm barely wearing anything at all."

A roguish smirk plastered itself onto the Ironborn's face and he says, "Love if you were wearing nothing at all, this feast would be far more... stimulating." Bran has to physically keep himself from rolling his eyes at the Ironborn's suggestive comment. From Robb's grimace, he deducts his brother too isn't entirely pleased nor amused with the Ironborn's flirtation. He's surprised when he hears the chuckle erupting from Nadia's lips. "Do you ever get tired of being such a whoremonger?"

"... I'm afraid I don't understand the question, my Lady," Theon answers, trying desperately to school his features to look utterly, desperately lost. Nadia rolls her eyes but grins into her drink.

THUD! The sound of meaty flesh against the solid oaken table reverberates throughout the room, silencing all the chatter and merriment of the men settling into their final feast for many months to come. All eyes are drawn to the source of the sound, the Greatjon of House Umber. Bran's skin prickles under the intense look the man gives his brother, unable to comprehend how Robb is maintaining such a cool stoic mask.

Greatjon addresses the crowd, "Here is to our Lord, our warden, our brother, Eddard Stark." Turning his raised goblet to Robb, Greatjon adds, "Here is to our Lord Robb Stark."

Shouts of "here, here!" enthusiastically ring throughout every corner of the dining hall but all Bran feels is a chill curling its way up his spine. He can't ignore the feeling of dread that captures his heart; he feels as if he's woken up and is learning that he'll never walk, never climb again. Vaguely he takes note of the fact that conversation has begun again, this time of War Council. He wants to listen but the sick feeling in his gut grows with each passing moment. He's momentarily distracted by the sight of his brother struggling to rein in his temper, his patience wearing thin. The fact that Nadia has been silent all night so far, has Bran doubting that it could be her irritating his brother. Robb sends an uneasy look to Theon before glancing straight ahead at the Greatjon who's waving his hands with exclamation, "The bloody wall will melt before an Umber marches behind a Glover! I will lead the Van. Or I will take my men and march home." Bran eyes Robb who'd ducked his head onto his crossed hands for a moment's breath. The eldest Stark raises his head slowly, his blue eyes like ice as he glares down the table. Bran's reminded of their father in that moment. He'd had the same look in his eye the day he'd executed that deserter of the Night's Watch. A little awestruck, Bran watches a fire spark beneath his brother's blue eyes. With all the dignity of a Lord of Winterfell, Robb answers, "You are welcome to do so Greatjon." He rises from his chair, "But when I am done with the Lannisters, I will march back North. Root you out of your Keep and hang you for an Oathbreaker."

Oathbreaker. A word that is likened to bastard. It's no surprise that the Greatjon takes insult. "Oathbreaker, is it? I'll not sit here and swallow insults from a boy so green, he pisses grass!" One moment Lord Umber brandishes a knife, the next he's stumbling from the floor, grasping his bleeding hand; Grey Wind had done his duty well, dismembering the man's fingers in such quick time. One could only imagine what the animal will be capable of when full grown.

In the silence that envelops the room, a tension grows so thick that Bran fears they all shall choke on the very air they breath. His grey eyes dart between his brother and their father's most loyal Bannerman. "My father taught me it was an insult to pull a knife on a man in his own home," Robb begins, "I'm sure Lord Umber only meant to cut my meat for me."

Lord Umber's response is slow but not reluctant… "Your meat is bloody tough!". It has all the men laughing as if nothing happened at all. The only one besides Bran to remain unmoved by this is the woman at his side. "Nadia," Lord Umber begins looking at her unsmiling face, wrapping a cloth around his bleeding hand. "Forgive us if we put you off your dinner."

She grins coyly raising her cup to her lips. Before they can touch, she answers, "Don't worry about it. Nothing I haven't seen before." She takes her drink, avoiding the odd looks that Bran, Robb and Theon throw her way. And despite himself, despite the torrid feelings of anxiety and fear of the war to come. 'Winter is Coming.' For the first time his Father's noble words bring him no comfort, no sense of purpose or identity. Only fear.

* * *

 **A/N Please, please, please Review. No flames - if you gonna flame pls note that you don't play with fire unless you wanna get burned... oh snap, oh yes I did... anyway, thank you guys for reading and I will see you next time ;D**


	23. No turning back

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! How are all of you!**

 **Ok so I realised I stuffed up my timeline in one of the earlier chapters I posted. So what I am about to write is the final timeline:**

 **Jun 18 2017 - Nadia crosses the veil ; Jul 10 2017 Catelyn leaves for King's Landing; Aug 10 2017 - Tyrion comes for dinner ; Aug 31 2017 - Catelyn arrests Tyrion; Sep 5 2017 - Winterfell receives word of Tyrion's arrest and Bran is attacked by Wildlings; Sep 14 2017 - Tyrion is release under trial by combat ; Sep 27 2017 - Robert Baratheon dies and Ned is arrested; Oct 2 2017 - Robb calls the banners; Oct 30 2017 - Feast of the Bannermen at Winterfell; Oct 31- Nov 2 2017 - this chapter**

 **now for REVIEWS:**

 **ColdHeartAngel: Nadia's attitude toward Roose Bolton will be heavily forced politeness, however I think she's proven to be a bit sarcastic and full of snark so we will see that bleeding through. Most of her interactions with him will come with season 2 and 3, as she will try to limit being near him - cos who would want to be in that guy's company. Of course they will be disagreeing quite a bit. But I would also like everyone to remember that Roose Bolton betrayed Robb ONLY because Robb wouldn't listen to him and screwed up everything. Before that Roose Bolton was loyal, albeit a very questionable character, so don't be too alarmed if we see Nadia actually agreeing with him in early season 1 or 2. I'm not saying it's going to happen, just that there may be a chapter where it could happen. I think I need to be more clear on where Nadia stands with interfering (though I'm sure this chapter shows a little bit); she'd prefer not to out of self-preservation and firm beliefs that no-one should have such a god-like power to control others' fate but at the same time, Catelyn showed trust in her to protect the Stark children. Having someone have that faith in her reminds Nadia of who she was (a training nurse/midwife, where she's responsible for peoples' lives) and so she feels she should do something. Now she just needs to find a balance, in order to ensure survival for herself and the Starks which is easier said than done. I like that you mention Ramsay. And honestly it's gonna be through Robb that we see the "rumours" of Ramsay Snow.**

 **FigurativelyDying: Yup, I love Bran chapters too. Nadia's impression of the looming war... I don't think it's quite hit her yet that she's a part of this story too. I think she still sort of sees herself as watching from the sidelines. When she realises she's a player in the games I think we really get to see where she stands.**

 **Rainsfere: Already PMed you but for other readers, Nadia can expect a great big slap in the face. It's expected but also unexpected, most of all by her given the news that they will receive. After that it's going to be a battle of redemption as well as figuring out that she's a player and that she's not just a spectator with their opinions, she's a character too who is interacting and forming different relationships with these very real people so she can't really hold onto previous opinions of them much. The banshee element is a self-diagnosis. Nadia's powers are one of the major arcs of this story, not just a means to aid her when things start changing. There is a purpose for them.**

 **Spicyrash: that would be a spoiler. But Nadia has already begun changing things. In the original story, Tyrion requests a trial by combat after spending who knows how many days in the Eyrie. Here, the very next day after arriving, Cat approaches him after having heard that her arresting him has resulted in Ned's leg injury, Jory's death (amongst others) and Jaime Lannister raiding Riverrun. Cat plots to have Tyrion released in a Trial by Combat within two days of him arriving at the Vale. That saves a lot of time, which leaves the question what happens to Tyrion? Also before leaving King's Landing, Cat and Ned discuss how Nadia has said something to Catelyn that casts doubt on Baelish's trustworthiness. It seems it had no effect because Cat ended up arresting Tyrion anyway... but maybe something Nadia has said worked.**

 **now... onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

NADIA

It's the first time she's set foot in the Godswood. Despite the fog that settles over the lake and the dew drops still icing the grass, their watery tendrils shimmering like diamonds in the moonlight, she doesn't feel cold; she doesn't feel the nip in the air, biting at her skin, sending goosebumps down her arms. Inhaling deeply, she settles amongst roots of the Weirwood trees. For a moment her eyes traipse over the bark, fingers deftly tracing weeping faces of the North's gods.

Burying her head into her chest, Nadia inhales deeply; the furs of her cloak tickle her nose, causing her to sniffle a little. She closes her eyes and tries to imagine what she would be doing this very moment back home. It'd be a Monday night. Which possibly meant either Uni or Hospital Rotations the next day. A lazy smile crosses her face, thinking of how she, Lilly and Alyssa would be huddled around in their living room, Alyssa on the beanbag, Lilly on the floor her legs curled under the coffee table and Nadia on the loveseat, her feet curled under her; all of their textbooks and notebooks and laptops would be surrounding them not to mention the mess of stationary (because Alyssa is a massive highlighter enthusiast). Exams would be coming up in a month, so Nadia would no doubt have pulled out her whiteboard for the three of them to draw mind-maps or keep tally on quizzing one another. And of course there would be coffee. Lots of coffee. At this time of night though, studying would be the last thing on their minds; they'd all be a pile of giggles and laughter, discussing something or the other.

Her reminiscing is disturbed by a certain Lord Stark approaching her. She hears him before she sees him. Somehow she's grown accustomed to his style of walking: quiet but confident, careful and calculated - _'like a wolf stalking its prey,'_ she thinks to herself, half-amused. She doesn't look to meet the glare he no doubts wears against her, instead waiting for him to say something first.

He doesn't. Robb moves past her swiftly, though she's sure he does pause for a second right behind her, coming to a stop at the edge of the lake just feet away from her. He kneels before the still water, bowing his head in quiet prayer.

He's ignoring her.

Nothing new there.

She tries to turn her mind back to her memories but finds she cannot, her mind far too unnerved with Robb's presence. She frowns. Nadia doesn't like that he's ruining her bliss.

But she keeps her tongue still anyway.

"Why did you leave the Feast?" he asks lowly, after a few moments. His head is still bowed, but with his back the her she cannot tell if his eyes are opened or shut.

Before she can stop herself, she quips, "Why do you care?" Beneath his furs, his shoulders tense. Tilting her head, she continues to snark, "I mean isn't it beneath a noble lord to concern himself with a whore."

"I never said you were a whore-"

"Only that I look like one," she finishes drily. Robb had turned his head towards her partially. The moonlight behind him casts his face in shadows, but his Tully blue eyes are still frightfully bright. He wears an expression somewhere between witheld aggravation and insult. Exhaling through her nose, she quietly calms herself. "I'm sorry," she says after a moment. "I'll just go. Let you get back to praying." She begins to push herself up but Robb's voice calls her to stop… "you sought solace here, as did I. I have no right to chase you from your own prayers."

"I don't believe in your gods."

"So then why seek out the godswood of all places?"

Nadia shrugs. "Dunno. Never been here before, actually. Guess I thought it was as nice a place as any to just sit and wait."

The seventeen year old has turned his head from her once again, but Nadia can't help but imagine a bemused expression on his handsome face as he asks, "Wait for what?"

She shakes her head, staring at the lake. "I dunno."

"You say that far too much, did you know that?" He looks at her with a stoi expression, but even in the darkness she can see the corner of his lip tilt up just a smidge.

She returns it with a small grin of her own. Then biting her lip, she looks down to her bare hands. They're pale. Well, pale for her. Nadia reckons she should consider retiring to somewhere with a fireplace soon. "I'm sorry," she says again, frowning at herself. "I am trying."

Robb pauses. "Trying?"

"Trying to keep my promise to your mum."

There is a terse silence. "It's not your duty to protect her children. It's my father's."

In other words: Try harder.

"There you two are," comes the old Maester's gentle voice. They both turn to him. His eyes are flickering between them questionably before fixing on Robb. "I believe the men are beginning to note your absence from the feast." Robb nods, rising to leave. He turns back to Nadia once, his gaze indescribable and unrelenting, before he's gone.

When Nadia pulls her attention away from where he'd just been standing, she finds herself locking gazes with the curious Maester's. "I thought I'd find you here."

She frowns. "How?"

"The godswood is where I look to when I find myself contemplating a matter."

"Not the sept?"

"A wise man is never limited by his beliefs," he answers. "And no place seems as removed from the trivial world of men, I would say."

Nadia is silent a few moments, her eyes moving from him to the water. It's so still she could almost swear it frozen, if not for the way sunlight shimmers across the lake's surface. Her voice is low when she speaks, "What exactly am I contemplating?"

Maester Luwin sends her a knowing look. "Whether or not you should follow Robb or stay in Winterfell."

Slowly she nods, meeting his gaze. Her eyes silently ask him what she should do. His expression is critical as he contemplates her, making her feel like a child under his gaze, the same way she felt whenever her dad would judge her each time she'd revealed a test score. For a second it's as if she staring at his cold, hard eyes full of anger and resentment but then Maester Luwin's voice breaks through mist and she's seeing him again, his old blue eyes full of concern and care.

"I'm sorry, what?"

He looks as if he's going to ask her what's wrong but thinks better of it. "I prepared this for you." From some indiscernible pocket in his gray robes, the old man withdraws a rather large vial. "Essence of Nightshade... I trust you know how to use it?" She nods in response, accepting the potion with a grateful smile. "We all have our burdens to bear."

She nods looking at the vial imploringly. She'd seen him prepare the amber liquid before but never dared ask for a vial herself, not wanting him to inquire about her troubling dreams.

"What do you think I should do?" she asks after some quiet moments.

"I believe you already know that?"

* * *

Nadia settles herself against the ledge of the doorway, watching the two boys for some moments. They're enraptured in one Old Nan's tales... "-nd mothers smothered their babes rather than bare to see them starve-" The woman cuts off as a loud groan echoes through the room from the door Nadia's pushed against.

Apologising to Old Nan, she begs the woman a few minutes to speak privately with the boys.

"Of course, poor dear. I hope you've been sleeping better."

"Yeah," Nadia lies through her teeth. Her nightmares, unfortunately, have not gone unspoken by some of the other residents at Winterfell, Old Nan being one of them. Of course no one's deduced the true nature of them… yet. They all must have made the assumption that she's had a hard life.

Nadia waits till she can no longer hear the woman's shuffling gait. Drawing herself onto Bran's bed, she takes a seat by Rickon, returning his sweet smile before turning to his brother. A wave of guilt hits her as she takes in the knowing look on his face.

"You're leaving, aren't you?"

"Yes," she whispers. Two small arms wrap around her waist, squeezing with a surprising amount of strength for one so little; it's a weak attempt to anchor her to his side but for a split second it almost works. "P-please don't leave us," Rickon whimpers. He's crying, reminding her of the night Catelyn left.

Sighing, Nadia wraps her arms around the six year old, tilting her head to rest upon his shaggy mane of fiery curls. "I have to, Sweetie," she whispers regretfully, locking eyes with Bran's grey ones; they burn silently, hiding his emotions well from her dissecting gaze. A little louder, she clarifies, "Maester Luwin's too old to travel and would like me to take his place as a healer for Robb's men."

"But there are other Maesters."

"And there are even more soldiers, who will need help."

Rickon pulls away and rightfully so, his pale face is quickly reddening, tears staining his cheeks. "But I don't want you to go! We need you here!"

With a tight lipped smile, Nadia brushes at his tears with her thumbs. "And I don't wanna leave you," she turns to Bran, saying, "either of you... but we've all got our... duties." Bran's chin tilts -it's ever so slight a motion but it's enough to communicate that he understands her words have a deeper meaning. Suddenly Rickon asks a question she'd hoped to avoid, "Will you come back to us?"

Will she? Who's to say? She can't control her abilities and has no idea where to begin learning how to; even then would they allow her to see her own future, her own death?

On one side Rickon's looking at her with his big blue puppy eyes, that adorable little quiver to his pouting lips. To her other side Bran has tensed with anticipation, waiting with bated breath for her answers, waves of dread rolling off him. Nadia loathes making promises she can't keep; it stems from an innate belief that she will always disappoint and was a rule reinforced in her Nursing studies. Yet she tells herself now that she's doing it for Rickon, to make letting go of another person easier for him even if it means he'll be cursing her gravestone someday; hopefully he won't remember her then, and she'll just be some fleeting memory to him.

Trying to sound as sincere as possible - and maybe just a little bit hopeful herself - Nadia firmly states, "I promise to come back." He looks at her a moment, holding her with the same regard of disbelief he did when they first met and he was unconvinced she wasn't a Wildling. Finally, a bright smile breaks out on his face; she truly hates herself for lying to him. Glancing at Bran briefly, Nadia implores Rickon, "Robb's not leaving for another couple of hours. Why don't you go write a letter for your mother. There's a chance I'll be running into her and I'm sure she'd love nothing more than to hear from her favourite little boy."

Granting her one last hug and, to her shock, a stolen kiss on her cheek, he disappears out the door, his bright auburn locks the last thing she sees of him.

"You lied," Bran's voice reaches her ears.

Turning back to him, she quips, "Well I wasn't going to tell your six year old brother that you've got him beat for being Mummy's Little Boy."

"That's not what I meant," he says irritably but she can see the smile quirking at the corners of his lips, which he tries in vain to fight off. "Will you try?" he asks after a few moments. "To come back to us that is?"

"Of course," she answers without hesitance. But the frown on his face remains there. "What?"

"I have to be Lord of Winterfell."

"You do." Bran looks, no glares at his crippled feet. Nadia tucks her finger under his chin, gently raising his gaze to meet hers. "Hey," she tells him with a gentle conviction, "You'll still have Maester Luwin. But you're also a smart kid. Trust your instincts."

"What if my instincts are telling me that Robb leaving isn't a good idea?"

Nadia sighs. "Then your instincts would be right," she answers truthfully, "but there are somethings we can't change."

"Have you tried."

"Not hard enough." Bran frowns, looking down at his hands. "Hey," she says, tilting his head up as she'd done for Rickon, "I am trying though. I want you to know that."

"Can't you tell Robb not to go?"

She shakes her head. "And make him look like a coward? You Starks are too proud and honourable to rescind your word. Besides I can't stop him from fighting for something he believes in."

"But you will help him," Bran pushes.

"Of course," she whispers, her tone serious.

Rising from the bed, she announces she needs to finish packing her things; she'd already done most of it, several times really, now all that's left is gathering medical inventory from Maester Luwin. "Why don't you write a letter for your mother as well," she suggests. As Bran nods, she can't help but notice how he looks so much older than age in those few short seconds; his eyes bearing an unforeseen burden already. Bending down, Nadia places a chaste kiss to his forehead. When she pulls away her fingers come to brush his unruly fringe, a habit she's grown accustomed to doing, knowing how it irks him so to be groomed; he doesn't grimace this time, instead giving her a watery smile.

"I'll be back later, okay?"

"Nadia," he calls to her when she reaches his door. Looking over her shoulder, she makes a noise as if to ask him him, "Yes?"

"No Fate but What we Make, right?"

She stares at him a few seconds then replies, a bittersweet smile gracing her features, "Right."

* * *

 **A/N pls pls review, especially with any queries. And don't forget to follow too ;D**

 **Until next time my lovelies... did I mention that we have a Tyrion chapter next followed up by a character whose perspective we have not yet seen (but whose will it be DUH DUH DUH!) ;D**


	24. Dubious

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello my lovely readers! So it's been 18 days since I last posted. I apologise. But like I sad back then, I've got rotations and exams for the next few weeks. I've manage to pull this chapter together but the next may take a few weeks also. I have also updated chapters 7 and 10 - minor changes that you won't notice much. Before it used to say that Nadia crossed through the veil the same night she was retrieving things from her parents' place with her friend Stefan. Now it's changed from Stefan to Matt and she retrieved her clothes from a certain place but the location is unknown as of yet.**

 **Now talking about this new chapter... it pulls bits from the show but given the different setting and timing (this chapter occurs on the same day as when Robb's army rides south a.k.a previous chapter) it is a little bit different.**

 **Now... reviews:**

 **Daenerys86: Awww, thank you so much. I know the feeling. Some days I'm going onto eight hour shifts with only 4.5 hours sleep cause I get stuck into a good story. I'm glad that you like Nadia. Don't be discouraged if at times she does thing that make you hate her (I know that's what some people complain about) because well she's human and we're not perfect; even good guys can do stupid things. Yup romance is slow burn. In fact their friendship is slow burn, so romance is still a little way off.**

 **Crystal-Wolf-Guardian-967: More is here ;D**

 **Spicyrash: "Amber didn't mean to kill... Only to maim or seriously injure..." sorry I couldn't not write that. I just had to after reading your review. Build up? What build up? (Cue shifty eyes and cheeky smile).**

 **Now... onto the story...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. These are the property of HBO and George R.R. Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

TYRION

A part of him feels like throwing his body against the dust and kissing the salty ground. During those two nights on that damned ledge, where the sky fell away beneath him, Tyrion had never imagined he'd see the gates of Casterly Rock. His feet are sore, his muscles aching. His mouth is parched; his thirst for wine has grown in the past few weeks of his sobriety. Shame his companion never carried enough gold to keep the both of them drunk for all their journey. He counts his blessings that he's here where he has endless access to the Lannister accounts, not to mention the brothels. How Tyrion has missed the feel of a whore wrapped around his cock.

Of course all these warm feelings of home dissipate the moment Tyrion steps foot in his father's study. As a child he'd loathed this room; Tyrion had only ever been summoned here if his father had deemed him fit for punishing after gods' knows what reason. Sometimes Tyrion wonder how both himself and Jaime have escaped developing cauliflower ears from all the boxings they got as children (something for which Tyrion is grateful for - he truly does not need another reason to be called deformed).

Tywin Lannister is as Tyrion remembers him. Fading blonde hair, stern aristocratic nose, hard eyes that lost their mirth the day Tyrion had been born, and of course that ever present scowl that Tywin seems to have reserved especially for his youngest child.

At this particular moment, his father is decked in his golden armour (how very Lannister); he's bent over his desk, hands resting on the edge of the wood. He barely chances a look in Tyrion's direction. But Tyrion has no doubt that his father has heard him. Twiddling his thumbs, Tyrion waits patiently, expecting his father to acknowledge him at any moment. It's not everyday that he'd been kidnapped, arrested on false charges and is almost killed by cliffside cell - the very least his father could do is pretend to be satisfied at his safe return. Curious even, Tyrion would accept anything, so long as his father would just look at him.

The seconds drag by slowly, silently. Tyrion does not like silences. At least not when he's sober. It makes his head hurt and his stomach churn, and his fingers tingle as if they are caught in a fire. Raising his fist to his lips, he coughs abruptly. No reaction from Tywin.

His brows furrow with irritation. So he steps forward just an inch and clears his throat yet again, a little louder. A small part of him feels ashamed that he must resort to such childish nuances to gage his father's attention. He's not a bastard. But then he recalls what he'd told Jon Snow: ' _All dwarves are bastards in their father's eye.'_

In the silence of it all, Tyrion hears the shortest escape of breath - a resignated sigh. His father then tears his attention away from his desk to meet Tyrion's with an enmity of reluctance. The patriarch wears an impassive expression as his stony gaze assesses Tyrion's figure. He then returns it to his maps. "Tyrion," he bites out, as if the name is poison on his tongue. "You're alive, I see. How did you manage that?"

Smiling tightly, he answers, "Well you see father, it's quite simple actually. Cersei has her cunt. Jaime his sword. It only makes sense that this child of yours actually has a mind." Tyrion doesn't miss the way his father's lips curl at the word child.

"Don't lecture me on what is shameful Tyrion. At least your siblings never reduced themselves to marrying a whore." Tyrion's fists clench at his side. It's been years since he's thought of her: Tysha. He'd loved her. Or at least he thought he did. But he'd been a boy, virginal in all manner before he'd met her. He could have easily confused infatuation for love. He'd been a fool; It had been Jaime who'd been the daring saviour to "slay" her would-be rapers and yet the girl had thrown herself at him, the half-human, the deformed one, the dwarf. He should have known better. After all, who could ever love a beast.

Perhaps Tyrion's expression betrays him because Tywin scoffs, "Oh come now Tyrion, you can't still be shedding tears over her. She was a whore. Don't tell me you actually loved her."

No. Tyrion won't. He refuses to show his father any weakness; doesn't the man already have enough against him?

Ever full of wit, the young Lannister deflects, "Why the armour?"

Tywin smirks, knowing he's hit a sore spot for his son. But he decides to go along with Tyrion's change in course. "You've missed quite a lot in your absence-" Absence. On the inside Tyrion seethes a little. Absence. As if what he'd endured had not been humiliating, had not been a terrific ordeal for him. His father blatantly continues, "Robert Baratheon is dead. Ned Stark rots in a prison cell for treason and his son has just declared war against the Crown." Tywin slaps down a slip of parchment closer to Tyrion's side of the desk. Stepping up, Tyrion plucks it curiously and reads the Northerner's scrawl. "When did this arrive?"

"Three nights ago."

Tyrion re-reads the letter again. Father. Treason. False. Liar. Coward. Army. Gates. King's Landing. These words flicker back and forth in his mind. He struggles to understand what is happening. "What treason did Ned Stark commit? He was always loyal to Robert Baratheon."

Tywin looks irritated, but perhaps at something beyond what Tyrion has said. "He challenged Joffrey's right to the throne."

"Challenged?" Tyrion repeats incredulous.

His father shoots him an exasperated expression. "Yes Tyrion. Challenged. Shall I add deafness to your list of disgraces?"

Ignoring his father's comment, Tyrion presses for the truth. No one in their rightful mind would believe that the honourable Ned Stark would consider an act as heinous as treason, let alone go through with it, especially when the person he'd be betraying was his brother in all but blood. Robert and Ned may have been as stark as day and night but the two men loved each other as Jaime and Tyrion did.

"Why does it matter?" Tywin replies, fixing his glove.

"It matters because Cersei is an idiot. If she thinks fabricating this rubbish of Ned Starks treason will in anyway bring the North to their knees before us, then she's already clearly mistaken."

"Our army is greater," Tywin argues.

"We shouldn't be needing an army at all!"

Tywin stares at his son. And for the briefest of moments, Tyrion thinks he sees something akin to pride. No, not pride. Far be it from pride. But something in his father's eyes tells him that he agrees with Tyrion, as much as he'd hate to admit that. Tywin rests his hands on the edge of the desk again. He sighs, "Ned Stark declared that it was Robert's last wish for him to be acting King until Robert's heir was ready to assume the role."

"Four years. Cersei couldn't wait four more years."

"Your sister saw an opportunity and she took it."

"And how many will die?"

"What does it matter, how many will die? So long as the legacy of our family is preserved, all of Westeros can starve for all I care," Tywin bites back, his scathing eyes looking at Tyrion with humourless mirth. Tyrion understands. ' _Everyone who isn't us is an enemy.'_ It's a mantra, one of many, drilled into his head since before he could talk. What should he care for those on the ground?

' _Perhaps because I'm closer to it than everyone else?'_ he thinks to himself. Slapping down Robb Stark's letter, Tyrion looks up at his father fiercely. "You know as well as I do, that Ned Stark has no interest in the Iron Throne. How many times has Robert offered it to him over the years? And how many times has he refused? This is a dangerous game we are playing, father."

"Nevertheless, it's begun and we cannot change that fact."

"Or we could."

Tywin furrows his brows at his son. "What do you mean?"

Tyrion goes silent, his lips tight as he carefully considers his words. Unbeknownst to him, he's carefully rubbing his wrists where they'd once been in chains. His father's sharp gaze notices this little gesture. His eyes narrow. "How did you manage to escape the Vale?"

Tyrion is startled by his father's question. But then he notices the suspicion in his father's eye. Now if there were ever a moment to prove himself a true Lannister it is now. "I requested a Trial by Combat to prove my innocence. I knew that Lady Stark and her sister would not allow me a fair trial after accusing me of killing Jon Arryn and attempting to kill one of the Stark boys. I convinced a common sellsword to fight for me."

"How did you manage that? I doubt many would be willing to fight for tiresome dwarf."

Gritting his teeth, Tyrion replies, "No doubt. A Lannister however… always repays his debts." He smirks at the end, toying with a little Lion figurine on his father's map. He's not ignorant to Tywin's careful scrutiny of him. Tyrion remains unfazed. Tywin relinquishes his search for whatever truth he'd been suspicious of. On the inside, Tyrion releases a sigh of relief. On the outside, he masks his face with an expression akin to that of exasperation and irritation. "Now that we've been reacquainted, tell my why you have not convinced Cersei to release Ned Stark of his charges."

"Is that what you want? To have a traitor to our house run free-"

"In what world is Ned Stark a traitor? He was only going to ensure that when Joffrey takes the throne, he wouldn't be a spineless, cowardly spoilt brat!" Tyrion glares at his father. Truthfully he's not sure why he's becoming so easily agitated by the state of things. Perhaps it has something to do with his debt to Catelyn Stark. Or perhaps he's finally realised that he has some humanity in him after all, despite the rest of humanity deeming him less than human without so much as a glance. His father curls his lips in distaste at his outburst, his eyes seething with carefully withheld frustration that Tyrion believes only he has ever managed to elicit from the man. Then his father pinches the bridge of his nose and turns his back to Tyrion, his attention returned to his maps. Tyrion takes this as a sign of his dismissal and carefully makes his retreat from his father's study.

When he's only just a few feet from the door, his father's voice reaches out to him, "Your sister is adamant to see Ned Stark silenced and shipped to Wall for the rest of his days. Ever the snake she is, she's manipulating Joffrey to see to it."

Tyrion turns to look at this father, but Tywin's back is still to him. "And pray tell why would Cersei want Ned Stark silenced? What does he know that makes her fearful of him?" Tyrion asks, though deep in his gut, he has his suspicions. They'd been bubbling quietly, ruminating in the back of his mind ever since that breakfast at Winterfell.

Tywin turns his head ever so slightly to Tyrion, "You think she'd confide in me?" Good point. "She's arrogant and ignorant."

"There must be something we can do. Broker peace with the North. Let Eddard swear fealty. Do you think that forcing him to confess a crime he has not committed and then banishing him will earn the North's respect of us. Have you heard the way the Northerners speak of him? As if he is their father. They speak as if he is their king. Humiliating him will only further ignite their hatred against the Baratheons and against us." There is a momentary silence. Tyrion doesn't like the way his father bows his head as if considering to tell him something. "What is it?"

"We do not have the Baratheons' support."

Tyrion stares at his father, who has now slowly turn to face him but still refuses to meet Tyrion's eyes; he's lost in his own thoughts. Tyrion gapes at the man. "We do not have the Baratheons' support?" he repeats dumbly. "Well," he nods his head. "That does complicate things. And why does Robert's heir not have their support?"

Tywin waves a hand, though his expression is not nearly nonchalant. "Stannis and Renly each claim to be the rightful heirs."

Tyrion's mouth draws into a firm line. "I see," he nods. Those suspicions may ring true, it seems. Stepping up to the desk once again, Tyrion observes his father's map. The little figurines marking who's trotting on whose territory. They may have one of the largest armies, but they are outmatched by unanimous unpopularity. "Well, I'm new to strategy, but ... unless we want to be surrounded by three armies we need to ensure Eddard's safe return to the North. Simply brokering him like some hostage will not do; no we need to ascertain his allegiance somehow, or at the very least, his compliance to stand down."

Tywin purses his lips. There's a momentary silence while he pours himself a drink. Swallowing the wine down, he looks back to Tyrion. "My daughter thinks she's more intelligent than she is. She has spoilt Joffrey and if she is not careful, she will lose her control of him. And then... " Tywin trails off, waving a hand at the map, "then there will be madness… madness and stupidity." Tyrion remains quiet, watching his father carefully. Even in the vast silence of the study, he must strain his ears to hear the patriarch's next words, "I always thought you were a stunted fool. Perhaps I was wrong."

"Half wrong," Tyrion murmurs. He almost wishes Tywin would offer him a grin at the quip. But he receives nothing but a solemn look. "I and sixty thousand of our men will ride out first thing in the morn. We will convene with your brother's small band in the Riverlands. And you will go the King's Landing."

Tyrion shoots him a bemused look. "And do what?"

"Rule," Tywin smirks. "You will serve as Hand of the King in my stead. You will bring that boy King to heel, and his mother too if needs be. And if you so much as get a whiff of treason from the rest: Baelish, Varys, Pycelle…"

"Why not Uncle Kevan? Tyrion blurts out. "Why not anyone?" Surely Tywin has many counsellors who he trusts more than Tyrion. "Why me?"

Tywin looks down on him. "Because you're my son," he replies as if that's enough qualification. Tyrion does not know how to answer that. It's so rarely that he ever hears his father acknowledge him so assuredly. Yet Tyrion finds it difficult to keep his mouth shut. "What if I refuse?"

Tywin's irritable expression returns as if it had never vanished. "Then I will put you to lead the Van straight into Robb Stark's forces."

' _Surely there must be easier ways to kill me,'_ Tyrion thinks bitterly. "King's Landing it is," he answers, forcing a smile.

* * *

"Get up!" Tyrion empties the goblet onto the sellswords head. The man squirms in his bed, reaching blindly for his sword. The whore wrapped around him is thrown unremarkably onto the floor, the blankets giving away to reveal her creamy skin in all its naked glory. Ignoring Bronn's irritated look, Tyrion runs his eyes over the girl before quickly dismissing her. "Good choice," he says turning back to Bronn. "Had your fun?"

"I was hoping it would last a bit longer," the man replies. He pushes himself up, uncaring if the dwarf should see his manhood. Stumbling past Tyrion, he pinches his trousers from the floor and proceeds to dress himself. "What do you want?"

"It's actually a matter of what you want," Tyrion answers vaguely. He smirks at the bemused look on the sellsword's face.

"What I want?" Bronn asks. Tyrion nods. He then reveals a small purse, jiggling it a little, just enough for the other man to hear the sweet melody of coin tinkling about. "Ah, I see what they say is true about you lot." He moves to Tyrion, reaching a hand forward but Tyrion retracts it quickly.

"There's more."

Brown raises a brow. "What's your price?"

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: I know it's short. I'm sorry. Pls don't chop my head off.**

 **Pls review!**

 **And if your likey, pls follow!**

 **Thank you!**

 **Cheers mates,**

 **Amber**


	25. Friends, fools and foes?

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: I'm back pitches! Sorry, i just love pitch perfect and have always wanted to say that. Anyway... Hello my lovely, lovely readers! Gosh, have I missed you guys so much! Life has been crazy! Exams. Work. Placement. Sigh is life. But this story has always been playing in the back of my mind, and while the plot further down the road has been developing, thd more immediate storyline had given me a case of writer's block. I figured I had to step away from this story and distract myself... by planning other stories. *Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge* Teen Wolf fans.**

 **In penance of making you wait so long, i give not only this chapter (from Theon's POV!) but I also promise the next chapter to be posted next week. However, after that updates will be restricted to once fortnightly or monthly (most likely monthly, depending on how my Uni work accumulates over the Semester).**

 **Now before we get onto the story... reviews!**

 **Masquerade Flower: I'm glad you're enjoying the interactions. I hate verbatim fanfics because then it feels like the OC really is just an extra. Repeating dilogue is fine, and works incredibly in some stories where they've added to the story while still keeping it canon but original. But running lines from the show bugs me. For this storyand any other fanfic I write, I tend to write around existing episodes or scenes to avoid verbatim as much as possible except where unavoidable as with major scenes. I hope you continue to enjoy.**

 **Rainsfere: Tyrion will be careful. Tywin is watching him as is Cersei. He has some strange allegiance to Cat, more out of fondness and wanting to do the right thing by everyone rather than feeling obligated. How he uses Bronn... we'll have to wait and see.**

 **Jean d'arc: Tyrion has the kingdom's best interests in heart. Saving Ned Stark is in the best interest. He will arrive in King's Landing while Ned is still alive. However with Cersei and Tywin suspicious of him (as per usual) releasibg Ned Stark is easier said than done. And it's not easy to be said either. Hope Joffrey's not around to hear about it.**

 **Spicyrash: to kill Ned or not to kill... that is the question on everyone's mind. Let's just leave it at that. I will say this, Nadia will mess up. A lot. But she'll get some things right too. Why? Because she's human. She's only a twenty year old girl from Melbourne. Even knowing what she knows, she is not meant for the world of Game of Thrones and does not know how to handle the information, because she's not a god and the idea of fixing other people's lives scares her when she was still figuring out her own in our world. So yes mistakes are expected. Drastic ones. From her. From Robb. From Theon. From Cat and everyone else. Her choices alone do not dictate thestory line. As for the weight of her actions... one of my favourite quotes: "Anybody capable of love is capable of redemption."**

 **Now onto the story...**

* * *

 **THEON**

Dragons. These soldiers, warriors are headed to war against the crown and yet they seem to be all in a tizzy over a something little more than a myth. Theon rolls his eyes at the childlike wonder with which the eldest Tallhart brother's eyes alight at the mention of the lost Targaryen princess and her dragonstone fossils. This is a point the ironborn stresses to the fair-haired Northerner, but Benfred seems not to care. If anything he looks accosted. "Come now, Greyjoy," Benfred begins, "You cannot say such whispers do not call unto your sense of adventure."

Theon scoffs, "Adventure? How is chasing fallacies an adventure?"

"It's no fallacy."

"Aye, it's true," Eion Blackwood agrees.

Theon shares a look with Silas and Arthur as if the three of them silently questioning why they had abandoned their post by Robb and his counselmen to ride along these idiots. 'Because these idiots are friends you've not seen in years.' Aye, that is a true, Theon is reminded. It's been – what? Two years since Bolton's wedding; that was last when most of the Northern bannermen feasted together. For Silas and Arthur, mere guards of Winterfell, it must have been longer since the old 'gang' (as Benfred likes to call them) had been all in one place. Save for the Glovers visiting Winterfell ten moons ago, yes it has been quite some time since this raucous group of young men had been acquainted.

The only two missing from their little party are the sons of Eddard Stark. Robb understandably must remain at the fore of their ensemble, but Jon… Theon cannot help but pity his old comrade. The ironborn and the bastard were never particularly close – Robb has been their common ground. But their roles in Winterfell had placed them in an exclusive group of outcasts. Like Theon, he had always been overlooked. Which meant more mischief was to be had with Jon than with Robb. Jon would always protest… at first. He had been quiet and brooding, never much fun to be around really; even with these friends today, Jon would be the silent figure in the background offering little for conversation but listening on intently with amusement alight in his eye; and when the bastard did offer his words, they were so trite and witty.

He'd assuredly have something to say about Benfred's eagerness for "real adventure".

Blackwood is still going on about the late Robert Baratheon's conspiring against the last of the Targaryens. Apparently the Beggar King met his fate at the hands of the very same barbarian that he'd sold his sister too. Perhaps the Targaryen Madness had not died with the Mad King.

"How can you even be sure that these tales are true?" Arthur Mollen questions from Silas' right.

"Merchant from Bravos passed through a tavern in town one night. Essos – the land of eternal sunshine. That is where the real fun is my friends."

"Fun is for boys," Theon spits. "We're riding a rebellion. So either shut it with your fantasies or turn home to your mothers' teats."

Benfred gasps mockingly. "When did Theon become the sourpuss? You compensating for the bastard or something?"

Theon kicks his leg out at Benfred, causing the blonde's steed to startle almost unsaddling it's rider. And much to everyone's delight, the eldest Tallhart son let out a rather undignified womanish squeal. There was no doubt in Theon's mind that this would be a point of jesting for days to come.

"Can't you act your age, honestly," Silas betates, shaking his head in thinly veiled amusement.

"Don't tell me," Theon nods over to the eldest Tallhart, "Tell them."

"How is the bastard anyway?" Eion calls across Benfred.

"His cock frozen off yet?" Benfred adds.

Theon assures them that Jon is well, cock and virginity still intact. Much like Theon, Benfred gawks at the notion that Jon hadn't taken the opportunity to bed a whore in Moletown. "If I knew I'd be going celibate for the rest of my days… well I'd cut my days short I think."

"Don't do that," Brandon tells his brother.

"Do what?"

"Think. You could hurt yourself." The jest earns another round of laughter at Benfred's expense.

"Spoken like a boy who has never fucked a woman in his life," Benfred replies.

"Not all of us are whores like you and Greyjoy." Both men share a look as if to ask what the problem is.

Sidling up to the young Tallhart, Theon says, "Well it's not too late for you Brandon. There's a whore in every town we pass."

"And if you play it smart, you could even convince a silent sister to scream for you," Benfred adds. His eyes seem to be boring into Theon's however. The ironborn quirks a brow at the challenge. Wouldn't that be a tale. A true battle: to tame a shrew.

Brandon scoffs at the pair of them. "Whores and women of the cloth? You couldn't aim much lower could you?"

Benfred replies, "Would you like me to aim higher, brother?" His grey ryes stray towards Theon, who returns it bemusedly. "Say… a certain ward of Winterfell?"

Theon cannot hide the disgust on his face. He knows it to be a joke, and yet the thought is simply so abominable, so crude even for him. "Fuck off, you perverse bastard," he spits at Benfred. "Keep your cock to yourself or I'll chop it off."

Benfred chuckled but shakes his head. "I suppose I should say I'm flattered, Greyjoy, that that was your first thought. But I'm afraid to say you are not who I'd implied."

Theon's face furrows with confusion, one which he notices is shared by Silas and Arthur. Who else… oh. His green eyes narrow in search of a familiar head of raven locks. He spots her in usual place, riding the back of a rickety wagon amongst bags and boxes of Winterfell's medical supplies; her head down, nose buried in the book she scribbles away in. Theon almost snorts at the amusing sight. The banshee has clear cratered a man's head with her screech and yet she still has a fear of riding horses. 'Not fear. Discomfort,' he can almost imagine her snarky voice correcting him.

"Forget about it," Theon says firmly, eyes still on her.

There's a brief silence before Benfred exclaims, "Is Theon in love?"

"I don't care for her you idiot. It's that she's Robb's ward."

"So? She's not actual nobility," Eion asks, not with spite but genuinely curious.

"She's the one who killed the assassin sent for Bran," Silas answers. Theon bites back a scowl at the soldier. This fact was no secret but neither was a public affair made of it.

The men in the group turn to look at the girl. Almost as if sensing their eyes, she glances up, face screwing with confusion. They all quickly return their gazes to the road ahead, except Theon and Silas who try to grin and wave away the curious look she throws them. From this distance, Theon can see her bite her lip with frustration. If he's lucky she'll forget about it. But he's learnt during their short acquaintance that she can sometimes be irritatingly stubborn like Robb to not let some matters go. Theon suppresses a shudder at the memory of her first few archery lessons.

"How in the seven hells did she manage that? I don't think she even comes up to my shoulder!" Benfred says. To be fair, Benfred could easily be confused for an Umber on height alone.

Theon rolls his eyes but catches Silas and Arthur's subtly perplexed expression. Seems even these guards find the story the Starks had fed to them, hard to swallow. "She turned his knife on him," he tells those unwitting.

"Right in his face," Arthur adds. "Didn't think a dagger could do such a thing. Looked like he took a hammer to the head. Valyrian steel I suppose."

"If you thought the he was a sight, you should have seen her. Drenched in his blood. I didn't think she could go that white… beneath all the red that is," Silas tells them. Theon suppresses yet another shudder, recalling Nadia confessing to himself and Robb how sometimes she can still taste the man's blood in her darkest times.

"Bloody hells," Eion breathes.

"Tough as nails," Benfred says after a few moments. "Just how I like my women."

Brandon scoffs at his brother. "I thought you preferred them to be mewling quims, on their backs and easily spread."

"Always up for a challenge."

"Like I said, Forget about it," Theon reiterates. "Robb's vowed her his protection in repayment of the near sacrifice."

"Not to mention the boys were rather fond of her," Silas adds, to which Theon nods. "Robb wouldn't appreciate you lusting after her."

Benfred smiles. "I get it now. Robbiekins likes the healer."

Brandon rolls his eyes. "Honestly, Ben, you're as bad as a gossiping hag."

"What?" the blonde shrugs in defense.

"It has nothing to do with affection. Robb feels he owes her a debt. He values her," Theon ends the conversation regarding the banshee. He sets his gaze on her again. A small voice in his head whispers, 'Not enough though… or perhaps he values her too much and won't admit it.'

His eyes then lift above her head, catching sight of a very familiar she-bear. "You know if you really wanted a challenge…"

The conversation continues with lewd detail but safely steering away from Robb's female ward – thankfully. He's not sure how his friend would react should he learn that the banshee is getting far more attention than any if them would be comfortable with. Attention leads to questions. Questions they don't have any goods answers for.

Somehow they manage to circle back to the topic of dragons.

"Imagine it though, if we had dragons, those cocky blonde cunts would be knocked right off their mighty pedestals. Who needs an army if you have a dragon?" Benfred says like a little boy playing soldier.

"Viserys Targaryen apparently," Eion replies.

"You recall the dragon eggs are fossils, do you not?" Theon has lost count of how many times he must remind these two knit wits of the extinction of all things magic. Each time he gets a clawing feeling at the back of his mind that tells him he is a hypocrite (and each time he'll sneak a glance at Nadia).

"Yes but… just imagine it."

"Imagine the dragonlords coming back to Westeros?" Brandon asks.

"I'd pay anything to see Tywin Lannister's face when that happens." Arthur chuckles.

"Yes because Westeros prospered under the Targaryen reign," Silas quipped.

"Like we are now?" Benfred argues. "First a Mad King. Then a drunken whoremonger of a King. And now a spoilt boy King."

"Aye, he's right," Eion says after a moment or two. "We've not had much luck with kings lately. At least Robert never demanded raised taxes on the North."

"No he simply squandered the Royal bank's attributions, bleeding the kingdom into a slow and painful debt," Silas adds scornfully.

Theon reckons it must be the Iron Throne. All those swords so uncomfortable it turns whoever sits their arse on it into a royal twat.

Hours pass by swiftly. Theon found himself passing between Robb and the old gang several times, at one pint all of them together. He is mightily grateful when dusk comes and their called to draw the tents. He was born of the sea, so there is only so much horseback riding he can tolerate.

He is even more grateful for the dornish wine Robb pours for him as they settle down in the Stark's tent. Just like he'd been doing since they set out, Robb is curled over the table, eyes going back and forth over the map. The scouts had returned not long ago, informing the counsel of the quiet hung over the Twins. No Lannister forces. And no Frey forces.

The old cunt still has not declared, his arms safely lounging away within his lands while the Tully's are caged in their own keep. Loyalties are such fragile things.

"What are you thinking?" Theon breaks the silence with a phrase that is becoming far too familiar on his tongue.

Robb's eyes flicker up to him, returning to the map all too quickly. "Walder Frey."

"He'll want recompense for an army and a bridge."

"I know."

"And he's got more children than he cares for."

"I know."

"Sansa. Arya. Bran. Rickon. Hells, you might have to legitimise Jon just to appease him."

"Jon's already said his vows," Robb says, brows crinkling with upset. Theon wouldn't have put it past Jon to try to run from the Wall to aid Robb. As much as the ironborn would have loved that, he's grateful for whatever divine intervention kept the bastard back. Can't have Robb chopping off his own brother's head because the law dictates it.

Theon takes another swig of the rich crimson liquid. Replacing his cup on the wood he squares Robb with a scrutinising look. "You think you could do it?"

"What?" He knows Robb knows what he's asking but is trying to prevent those actual words from being voiced.

"Marriage."

"Of course," Robb scoffs. "It was bound to happen eventually."

Theon hums, "True. But you must have hoped to marry for love."

Again Robb scoffs. "Love is a luxury. I've always known that my bride would be chosen for me."

Theon shoots him a pointed look. "I think we both know that your mother would have allowed you some choice in the arrangement, unless there was absolutely no bargain."

"Like now?" Robb shot back. "I'll marry one of Walder Frey's daughters if I have to."

Theon's face darkens with concern for his younger friend. "I know you would," he says after aa few moments of studying Robb's brooding figure. "You would do whatever your duty asks of you. Whatever it takes to save your father and your sisters. But when this is all over and done with, do you think you'd be happy?"

"What does it matter? I'm not the first to be put in this position, and I won't be the last. If I'm lucky, at least my bride and I can be amicable with one another."

Theon stares at his friend, feeling proud and saddened of the maturity he shows. Robb has always been polite, dutiful but just months ago he'd still very much been a boy.

Theon feels the corners of his lips pull upwards, his infamous sly smirk painting its way onto his features. "If you are truly lucky, the Frey girl may even be a looker."

"Is that all you care about?" Robb chastises, but he can't help the small grin.

"Makes fucking her a lot easier," Theon retorts into his cup. He hears Robb snort, no doubt rolling his eyes at the comment.

"Is sex really the only thing you can talk about," a raspy voice snarks from behind him. He turns to look at the woman; her arms crossed and hips cocked as she shoots him grin. "And here I thought you were smarter than you look. S'pose I was wrong."

Theon rolls his eyes at her. "You wouldn't have me any other way."

"Don't be so sure," she quips. Her grin falls, as does her arms and coy attitude as her dark eyes slide past him to Robb. The Stark seems indifferent by the exchange, face completely void of expression save for the tiniest hint of irritation which Theon knows stretches far deeper, anger well concealed but buried beneath the façade. "We need to talk," Nadia exhales, tension heavy in het voice.

"We have nothing to discuss," Robb turns away, silently dismissing her.

Nadia shares a look with Theon. He shrugs, silently telling her to get out while she can.

She ignores both messages and pushes past, nearing the Stark but still keeping her distance. "Actually we do," she insists. Robb is silent, so she continues. "You need to change course."

"What?" Robb turns on her, incredulity and mild frustration on his face.

"Change course. Head directly for Riverrun instead of crossing at the Twins."

Robb stares at her. "Are you crazy?"

"Probably, not the point. You can't go to Walder Frey," she replies smoothly, ignoring the crazy comment. In the past, Theon's known her to flinch at the words, recalling her sensitive mental state those first few weeks of her arrival. Now she breezes over it, though he's not ignorant of her fingers nervously drumming on her thighs. 'She must really be determined to have her say,' Theon thinks.

"Why not?" Theon asks. "He sided with the Lannisters?"

She looks at him, her gaze losing focus as she disappears into her mind again. Nadia's brows are furrowed, her lips wearing a small frown. "No?" she answers, though it sounds more like a question.

"Then what's the problem?" Robb demands.

"You'll have to marry one of his daughters." Both of them frown at her. "It's part of the toll. A bride for the bridge, among other things." They continue to frown at her. She glances between them. "Yaknow, 'cause he always asks for a toll to use the bridge."

"We know," Robb quips. "It's obvious what he'll ask for."

Nadia frowns this time. "So what's with the braindead expressions?" she asks as if Robb had not almost killed her just a month ago.

"We don't understand what your concern is?" Theon offers, seeing his friend's darkening features.

She states at him like he's an idiot. "The marriage pact! You're not actually considering it?" she says looking at Robb again, though judging by her expression she already knows the answer. "You can't!"

"Why not?"

That shut her up.

Robb raises a brow. "Well?" he huffs, his patience running thin.

"Be-because-"

"Because what?"

"Because he's not trustworthy," she replies in a small voice after a few moments of internal debate. "He-Ther-I just….don't think making a pact with him would be smart."

"Smarter than travelling an extra week to Riverrun sans the 4000 soldiers he could potentially give us?" Theon asks, raising a brow at her. She shoots him a dark glare, but honestly he defense is weak. If she wants to persuade Robb, especially with the Stark still angry at her, she needs to do better than this embarrassment of an argument. A small part of Theon feels bad for her. He can tell that this means something to her. Perhaps something more happened between herself and his friend during their walks in the glasshouse in the months before Ned Stark's arrest.

Nadia tears away from glaring at the ironborn, returning he attention to Robb. "You can't trust Walder Frey. He's bad news, Robb." Theon's brows raise in surprise. She'd been careful not to use his name when talking to Robb was unavoidable, recently.

"If his grandchild is the heir to the North, his alliance would be assured," Robb replies calmly.

Nadia's jaw drops comically, though Theon feels far from laughter.

"You can't be serious?" she breathes. Eyes wide she looks at Theon. "He's not serious?"

"I am." Robb answers for both of them.

"No! Robb, you can't. Trust me on thi-"

"Trust you?" he seethes, and the girl is forced to step back, falling in line with where Theon remains in his chair. "You've given me little reason to trust you."

"I am giving you plenty now."

Robb scoffs, shaking his head at her comment. "We cross at the Twins."

"Bu-"

"We cross at the Twins," Robb repeats, his voice low and deadly, silencing Nadia. He turns on her, pouring himself another goblet of wine.

Nadia watches him, while Theon watches the pair of them. After a moment, Robb turns back to her, raising his cup to his lips with a look as if to say, 'You're still here?'

The girl clenches her jaw. "For months you badgered me to use what I know to help you. Now that I do, you're telling me to fuck off? Fine." Nadia points her finger at Robb threateningly. "You wanna make a deal with the devil. Go ahead. Just don't expect me to raise your entitled ass outta perdition."

If the circumstances were lighter, Theon would be parading a smirk at her snark. But seeing the broiling temper in his friend'a eye, he can't help but grit his teeth, green eyes warily bouncing between his companions.

In the blink of an eye, Robb crosses the space between himself and the girl. The Stark grips her arm – painfully if her wince is anything to go by.

"You would do well to show me respect, girl." Robb hisses.

A brief look of fear flashes across her brown features before she swallows it down, a fiery glare overcasting them. "Respect? You know nothing of respect, boy." Theon notices Robb's grip tighten on her, but she shows no effect of it. "From the moment I got here, you've had me imprisoned, chained, starved for some of that time; you've insulted me, manhandled me and threatened me!" As if to prove a point she tugs at her arm, the one in his grasp. "I fucked up! I will most likely fuck up again. Because I'm a collateral fuck-up. But at least I'm trying to help you now."

Robb is silent a few moments before he speaks four words. "I don't trust you."

The tension is so thick, Theon reckons he could cut it with a knife. He's pretty sure Nadia and Robb have forgotten him. He's sure he's forgotten himself. It's only the sound of the drapes being pulled aside that draws his attention and his attentions alone to the newcomer.

"Milord I…" Silas trails off, clearly not expecting the standoff before him. The older man's eyes flicker to Theon carefully, a silent question in them. The ironborn merely shakes his head subtly. 'Don't ask,' he wordlessly tells the other man.

Silas crosses his hands behind his back, awkwardly shifting from one foot to the other. He coughs after a few moments.

"Sorry Silas," Nadia says, her dark eyes still boring into Robb's heatedly. "I was just leaving." She turns on her heel and storms out of the tent. If Theon's honest, he does stare at her sashaying hips a little too long. What? Just because he's not pursuing her doesn't mean he can't her admire her few assets.

He's pretty sure the wind carries her mutterances of "dickheads" and "dipshits".

He's also pretty sure he'll spend the next few hours getting an earful from Robb and how the boy loathes the girl. Honestly, Theon wishes they could fuck each other, get rid of all that tension even if it's not entirely sexual. He's not even sure if Nadia has a sexual bone in her body, despite having the crude demeanor of a sailor. The girl is positively green.

One last thing he is sure of, is he still has no idea who the devil is. It's on his mental checklist of things to clarify with her, just under enemas.


	26. Words

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! I promised this chapter this week and I delivered. Forgive me for making you guys wait so lonf for the previous one. But also a reminded to everyone that I will only be posting once a month from now on unless otherwise stated.**

 **Before I get into the reviews I would just like to say to anu fans of teen wolf, I plan on starting a teen wolf fanfic sometime soon so keep a look out. Any queries about it, feel free to PM me.**

 **Now... reviews:**

 **ChildofDreams: I have no response. Your one-word reviews are unhelpful and vague.**

 **ColdHeartAngel: I loved that rant! I imagine gobsmacked, jaw dropped, glazed eyed expressions. You're right Nadia does struggle to drop a bomb like that because the consequences are unpredictable and unfathomable. She's beginning to work out the balance between revealing truths and catastrophic damage to the story. Flash fans know all too well how tamoering with timelines can be damaging and the same thing applies here. Will she have a bomb-drop moment... sorta... a tiny one in this chapter... not really. But there most likely will come a time when she will reach her capacity and snap at someone. All in good time. She's still in training wheels with the whole banshee thing.**

* * *

 **CATELYN**

Soldiers greet her reverently, some bowing while others simply nod kindly as she passes them by; their faces are young and old, some she recognises, some she doesn't and even some in between no doubt the sons of men she may have known once as a girl or during her time as Lady Stark. With a sudden sombre thought, she wonders how many of these faces will remain when all is said and done.

And what of Robb? Her first son, her darling boy; would he survive these games of men? Would he save Ned or will it all be for nought? What would become of her poor daughters, trapped in the gods' forsaken Lion's den? And what of Bran and Rickon, her youngest, her babes all alone in Winterfell? Would she see them again? What if the Winter comes before this war ends?

'No,' Catelyn tells herself, 'This war will be over soon, just like every rebellion before it. And our family will be whole again.' Yet, she can't help the feelings of fear and pain, of longing but never truly knowing whether she would hold her husband again, feel him against her, within her; such thoughts had tormented her when he left to fight the Targaryen's, back when there had barely even been love between them then.

She quickly dispels these thoughts, fearing what will become of her should she linger on them.

The summer snows glow in the pale orange light of the setting sun, crunching softly beneath her boots when she comes to stop at the small tent. It stood further away from Robb's than one would think of for his ward. If Theon being the one to inform her of Nadia's presence in the camp was not a sign of Robb's displeasure, then this is.

Part of Catelyn pities the girl for it; another part of her thinks it fair justice.

Without further hesitance, she pulls aside the partition, inviting herself into the girl's abode. Her blue eyes immediately land on Nadia, kneeling with her ear to the floor, peering under her bed.

Clearing her throat she tries to get the younger woman's attention, but goes unnoticed. She tries again, stepping closer to the cot. Still no response.

"Nadia!"

A loud thud is heard, followed by a muttered curse that causes Catelyn's lip to curl with disapproval; men could be crude all they liked, they are men after all, but it is no place for a Lady to behave as one. Then again, she reminds herself that Nadia is no Lady... but was Arya not the same?

 _'Was? Has it already become was? Have you lost faith in your family Catelyn?'_ No. No, it would not do her well to think of her absent family members. Instead she focuses her torrent emotions on the young woman looking at her with a mix of sheepishness, befuddlement and... relief. Had she thought Catelyn some man intruding upon her? Has this happened before?

"Lady Catelyn," she greets, though it sounds more a question in the woman's ears. After a moment, Nadia attempts a curtsy - a slightly messy one that reminds her of Arya also - as if suddenly remembering her manners.

"Were you expecting someone else, Nadia?" she asks voice curt.

"N-no," the girl replies, her forehead creasing with confusion. "Nobody really talks to me except Theon..." her voice trails off awkwardly. Robb truly is unhappy with her here. Composing herself quickly, Nadia adds with a bright smile how glad she is to see Catelyn again and from what she can tell, the girl is sincere about it too; of course she would be, Lady Stark doesn't expect less from her… 'but I did expect more.'

"What are you doing?"

"Wh- oh... um nothing. I just thought I heard-DROPPED something... under the bed." Nadia bites her lips nervously and bears an expression that she knows how unconvincing she sounded. Yet Lady Catelyn chooses to ignore this, wishing to let the girl deal with her... problems on her own should she wish.

Forcing more authority into her voice, Catelyn clarifies with a clipped tone, "I meant what are you doing here, Nadia. Here. Away from Winterfell and my sons, whom you swore to me you would protect."

Shock. Embarrassment. Guilt. Shame. These emotions and a tirade of their like adorn the nineteen year old's face, making her seem older by a decade at most. Hurt is also there but Catelyn cares not that she is responsible for putting it there. With her fists clenched and chin high, she stares down the younger woman, blue eyes filled burning with anger, disappointment, questions.

Nadia's gaze is quick to drop, staring out over Catelyn's shoulder as if trying to mask her inability to match Lady Stark eye for eye. Her lips move then, so minutely that air barely escapes them let alone words. "What did you say," Catelyn commands of her, voice low but serious.

Chewing her cheek, Nadia softly answers, "I said they're safe."

Scoffing Catelyn replies, "Safe? Have you seen their deaths? Do they die of old age?"

"No... I don't know."

"Have you gained some power that allows you to shield them from afar?"

"No."

"Can you guarantee that no harm will come to them?"

"...no."

Stepping dangerously closer to her Catelyn adopts a threatening tone, "Then tell me why I should trust you?"

"Because I risked my life twice to save Bran's. And one of those times was for you too!" As soon as the words escape her lips, tanned hands slap up to cover them, as if shocked she even snapped like that. "I-I'm sorry-"

Catelyn's raised palm silences her. "Answer me this," she says after a few moments, "Why did you leave them?"

"Because Robb needed-" Nadia stops. Her face screws with concentration as she struggles to find the right word. 'What? What does Robb need? You? A Banshee as you call yourself? A protector?'

"...a healer."

"A healer?" she hears herself repeat incredulously. "You would do well not to lie to me, Nadia."

She watches the girl sink onto her bed, her entire posture screaming defeat, resignation, exhaustion. When Nadia's dark gaze flickers from her own tanned hands to Catelyn's face, the former Tully notes how much she resembles Bran whenever he'd stare at the target board and wonder how his arrow could have possibly ended up in the bushes yards away. She seems so lost, trying to solve a mystery to which she has clues she can make no sense of. "I can't explain it but... I just feel like I'm supposed to be here, supposed to follow Robb." Nadia looks at her briefly a bittersweet smile adorning her dornish-like features, saying, "Believe me, I tried ignoring it. I'm scared being here. I wanted to stay in Winterfell... but I felt like I couldn't... like every fibre in my body was screaming at me that I had to come."

There's something else, Catelyn knows it, feels it instinctively as she does when Bran's lying or Arya's sneaking off from her lessons or when Robb, Theon and Jon had been out drinking in Wintertown. She wants to push but the girl already seems so alone, so vulnerable that Catelyn is afraid to push. _'Let her keep this secret, whatever it is. So long as she can promise me one thing.'_

"You once promised me, you would watch over my children. Assure me they will be safe." She hates her quivering voice, betraying her to a weakness she can't afford to show for herself or for Robb. Nadia purses her lips, a look of pain etching across her features. Yet she says nothing. Catelyn drops to her knees before the girl, taking rough hands in her own worn ones. Their eyes meet and for the first time she realises those black gems are in fact a rich molten brown. "Please," she begs. "I will ask of you no other knowledge of this... story. Just please - from one woman to another, to a mother... please give me this."

Sighing, Nadia's walls crumble. "I can't promise they won't be harmed. These are dangerous times for everyone but... your children will survive. I promise." Without missing a beat, Catelyn embraces her. She blinks back tears that threaten to spill forth. Whether they be tears of joy or sorrow for whatever pain her children will endure, she knows not. She focuses on one word alone. Survive. They will survive.

Nadia breaks away from her and quickly forages through her travel bag, searching frantically for something before withdrawing two large scrolls. Catelyn accepts the scrolls with a quirk of her brow.

Seeing this, Nadia explains, "I asked Bran and Rickon to write to you before I left."

With no other words to describe her thanks, describe how precious these two worn pieces of parchment felt to her, Catelyn can only wrap her arms around the younger girl once again. At one point she even fears she's squeezed the life out of her, to which Nadia laughs joking there's too much of her. If she were not a lady, she would roll her eyes at the girl's modesty.

Hours pass and Catelyn finds herself reluctant to leave the girl's tent, save to retire to bed after a long day's journey. Not to mention the journey ahead; Robb has already convinced Catelyn to speak to Walder Frey on his behalf - much to her own chagrin as she longs for nothing more than to return to her little ones. Sipping her tea, she studies Nadia carefully, the younger girl blissfully ignorant to the scrutiny as she sips from her own cup (though judging by the lack of steam, Catelyn's begun to suspect that it stopped being tea a long time ago). It's been years since she's found companionship in another woman. In Winterfell all she had was Septa Mordane, sometimes the servants and occasionally the wives of visiting lords. Much to her surprise she's found Nadia's company rather refreshing despite their age difference. Catelyn supposes that it would do well for the two of them to get along seeing as they would be travelling together for some time.

"It must be lonely for you," Catelyn whispers, elaborating when she sees the girl's confused expression, "Having no company here. Even at Winterfell."

"I don't mind," Nadia shakes her head, smiling gently. "I'm an only child. Kinda a loner, so I'm used to it. I know how to keep myself busy." Catelyn nods, eyes flickering to the notebook of sketches she'd caught a glimpse of earlier when they sat down. "Plus like I said before, Theon talks to me. Sometimes Silas too."

"Yes, but I doubt Theon is the ideal conversationalist for any woman."

Nadia nods but there's a slight grin. "Actually he's not always crude. And when he is, it doesn't bother me since I'm used to such... uncensored language in my world. Never thought I'd say it but Theon's been a good friend." Yes, that Catelyn had deduced from the way Theon mentioned Nadia, as if he saw her regularly; she'd also noticed how he'd thrown pointed looks at Robb as if trying to get a reaction out of him. But alas her son is as stoic as his father. Catelyn will admit though, she's surprised that the manwhore Greyjoy only has innocent intentions towards the banshee, even before they had left Winterfell. Smiling gently at the younger girl, she replies, "I'm glad that you are not so alone then. But if you do miss having a woman to talk to..." she trails off, her offer of a friendship of sorts made clear.

"I will, thank you, Lady Stark."

"I must apologise for my behaviour earlier," she whispers after some time. Nadia looks at her surprised by the remark.

She shakes her head, smiling gently, "Don't. You're anger was legit. I kinda expected it."

"But after the way I suspect my son has been treating you, it was unfair."

At that Nadia's face drops again but only briefly. "He's been... accommodating. Just busy and stressed. Nothing that bothers me."

Nadia's face doesn't express any sadness and Catelyn thinks she may be a good actress. "Be honest with me, please." The raven haired girl bites her lip; she clearly has more to say but is afraid to. Catelyn thinks it reflects well of her, that despite her unstable relationship with Robb, the girl still doesn't wish to speak poorly of him. But she asks for honesty. She knows how Robb can get; so like his father, stubborn but also with Cat's southern feistiness. "Go on," she encourages the girl.

Nadia drops her gaze to her hands. "He doesn't trust me," she rasps. Grinning weakly she adds, "I mean, I don't blame him really… but still…"

Catelyn's bemused. Of course she already knew that Robb's still harbours his doubts about the girl allegiance but there is something in the banshee's tone that suggests there's something she doesn't know… yet. "Nadia?"

"I tried to talk him outta crossing the Trident at the Twins. Told him that he'd be better off confronting the Lannister force at Riverrun."

"When was this?"

"About a week ago, when we had the chance to change route. But he wouldn't listen. Implied my judgement in matters of warfare couldn't be trusted. That and he explicitly doesn't trust me. Nadia's tongue was scathing in tone, bitter, showing the insult Robb's words had been.

But Catelyn was bemused. There was strategy in Robb's plan, so why would the girl disagree. She asks this.

Robb can't pay the toll. This is the answer Catelyn receives.

The toll. Walder Frey. Of course. The old whoremongering lord is infamous for asking a toll of whomsoever wished to cross his bridge. Catelyn knew that when she agreed to parley for her son. What he failed to tell her was that the banshee had reservations herself. She frowns at the girl. "What must my son sacrifice?" she inquires, though deep in her heart she knows the answer.

"Among other things, your daughters' hands in marriage… as well as his own," Nadia whispers the last part into her goblet, swigging another long sip of her fermented drink.

Catelyn hates it. Walder Frey has always been an opportunistic bastard. He never even showed his face during Robert's Rebellion until Rhaegar Targaryen's blood had painted the waters of the Trident scarlet. And now he thinks he can lay a claim to the North by cuckolding her son's heirs. And her daughters, her precious daughters. She would never let them marry one of his filthy offspring, never let the Frey's taint her children's purity. Isn't it enough that Sansa is still being blindly held hostage to that spoilt boy-King who still claims her his betrothed. No. Catelyn's heart will not endure to compromise her children's happiness any further.

Her Tully blue eyes study Nadia's face; the girl's expression is stony, her dark eyes heatedly glaring at her goblet. The tone with which she'd spoken surprised Catelyn very much. She doesn't know what it is which truly troubles the girl more: that Robb distrusts her or that she is truly concerned for Robb's wellbeing now that he's chosen to ignore her warnings. Which makes Catelyn wonder, 'Why did Robb ignore her warnings? Why did he not confide in them with me?' She's about to voice this question, when the answer comes to her… "You said he couldn't pay the toll," Cat recalls her words. While it is not a deal she'd like to agree to, she knows in her heart of hearts that Robb would agree to it hastily. He is too impulsive to consider the consequences of such a pact. Right now, the only thing that her son cares about is rescuing their family. It's the only thing she cares about… perhaps then Cat would agree to it… but she would hate herself all the while for selling her daughters like that. She can't see why Robb wouldn't agree to it; he's not vain, he would not care if his Frey wife was unappealing. He would do his duty because he has no other choice.

It's Nadia's voice which breaks through her turbulent thoughts, providing a moment of clarity: "He'll become an oathbreaker for love.


	27. Calm before the Storm

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: ... Well I'm back my lovelies! And I am so, so, so very sorry for the hiatus there. Honestly Uni and work and... gah everything caught up to me. It didn't help that Teen Wolf had ended and I was on a bender for Teen Wolf fics. Seriously, I was at a road block for this story and all of a sudden the only thing I could focus on was drafting some Teen Wolf fics. BTW if any of you lovely readers like Teen Wolf, please be on the lookout in my library, I'll definitely be publishing one of those stories within the next month.**

 **Now back to this story. Seriously, it has been so long, but it's always been on the back of my mind. I don't have plans to give this up but, like I said, it was a severe case of writer's block.**

 **So last time I left you, Nadia spilled the beans to Catelyn about the Red Wedding, or at least she did in some aspect. Talk about drama. What is this super secret power Catelyn has that has Nadia all loose lips... idk. Women are weird. I say that as a woman myself.**

 **Now before we dive into our next chapter... REVIEWS:**

 **Gentle Blossom: Glad you like the story so far. Nadia and Robb's relationship is complicated to say the least; it's barely even friendship at this stage. But yeah, I also look forward to seeing where this is going. I want to make it as organic as possible, so I don't want to force the characters to fall in love too quickly, but we'll see how it all pans out. Yes, Theon and Nadia's friendship is amazing! A small part of me keeps questioning if maybe that's a romance to consider instead... and don't apologise for long rants. I love em!**

 **RavenclawDinosaur: Yay, someone who actually likes Nadia! That sounds harsh to other readers, but if you've read some of my reviews, you'd see that some people think she's stupid and should just spill the beans. Oh lord. Wouldn't that be too easy? Maybe if she were a high-schooler, but she's twenty, three years into Uni and working part time to pay the bills. I'd say, she's much more mature, rational and ethical when it comes to her decisions, so even when they are flawed they can be justified by some degree of humanity. I guess that is schmancy spiel for saying I want her to be flawed and real and someone people can actually relate to, so I'm glad that you admire her character.**

 **jean d'arc: I totally agree with you, but given how unstable everyone's circumstances were, I'd say Catelyn was really putting all her eggs in one basket. She had too much faith in Robb, but then again I can't blame her; she's his mother. She really doesn't have a choice but force herself to believe he can win the war to save himself and their family. It'll be interesting to see how she takes Nadia's revelation about the Frey's; maybe she has something else up her sleeve.**

 **Barryium: Lol, yes. The accent. I didn't really bother to write in the other characters' British accents, mostly because I think any reader wouldn't really have a problem imagining the cast of the show. But for Nadia, I really want to ingrain that she's Aussie.**

 **ColdHeartAngel: I like that you mentioned what it would be like for the characters to catch a glimpse of themselves; and I have had an idea for season 6 where I would depict this in some way; there may be a chance for it to appear earlier but I'll have to see how the story develops from here on out. I can say that these relationships will constantly be tested. There's rarely going to be lasting peace; how can there be when they're at war. But it's a matter of judging "the greater evil".**

 **Rainsfere: Nadia's sole intention for following Robb was due to her being a Banshee, which was reluctant given that the "banshee" had coerced her so to speak to follow Robb, kind of solidifying that it's her destiny; going as a Healer is a cover, though given her experience, we will get to see how she plays a crucial role in supporting Robb's war effort on the medical front; I do plan to depict plenty of scenes showcasing her nursing talents of which she will get recognition and appraisal.**

 **Now... ONTO THE STORY:**

* * *

 **NADIA**

She's awoken, not by the cries of dying men nor by laughter of their murderers; not by the sound of steel sliding through flesh nor the unfamiliar _whoosh_ of arrows piercing through the air; not by putrid stench of fire and blood intermingling, wafting, drowning her senses as she chokes on the smoke nor by a glinted blade drawing its way across her neck, her crimson blood staining its mirror surface as she watches the life fade from the sapphire eyes staring at her with emotions she cannot comprehend; not even the haunting symphony of the Rains of Castamere awaken her.

No. No, it's a rough hand against her mouth, the other shaking her shoulders desperately as if she is some scrawny little ragdoll.

When her eyes open, she's grateful to be miles away from that hall that was so cold yet so hot, as if the fires were pushing her towards the chilling embrace of death. For a split second she thinks she's home again. Home with Alyssa and Stefan making out on in the living room, ignoring the Morning Show and Nadia's own (affectionate) groans of disgust at their PDA from her place at the kitchen bench, her own cup of hot cocoa perched between her fingertips, swirls of steam sensuously drawing her awake.

Then, like every other morning, she realises where she is and dreams of home stay just that - Dreams.

Blinking away the fuzzy spots in her vision, Nadia finds herself staring up at Theon's moss green eyes. Confused, her eyes narrow at him, flickering between his face and his hand over her mouth. Apparently he seems to understand her silent request because he sheepishly releases her and backs away, seating himself on the end of the bed. Watching him warily as he does so, she too sits herself up, pulling her blankets to cover herself; he certainly doesn't need to know she sleeps in her underwear. "Dude! What the hell?" she hisses, yawning partially.

He rolls his eyes at this. "Don't worry, love. I'm not here to steal your virtue." She doesn't answer him, but does fix him with a deadpan look. Raises his hands defensively he adds, "What, we couldn't have you alerting the entire camp to your little gift now could we?"

Nadia's brows crease together in confusion before she realises that he must have walked in on her while she was in the middle of another nightmare.

"Oh..." she replies, moments later.

"Yeah, oh. Looks like you owe me, Banshee."

"In your dreams, Greyjoy."

"Everynight," he teases, a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows. Shoving his shoulder, she tries to mask her amusement with a disappointed shake of the head, but her damn dimples betray her.

Rolling her eyes at the smirking man, she tilts her head and looks him over. He's dressed for war council... again. Nadia supposes this means she'll have another day to herself; she could probably triple check her inventory and study Maester Luwin's grimoire - because apparently also healers use them to document their work. Maybe she could even take up journaling again, though what she can write about she has no idea; nothing worth noting has happened yet, though on second thought perhaps that's a good thing. _'Guess it's another day of... nothing. How the hell did I do this before?... oh right... the Internet...'_

A little belatedly, she realises that Theon's trying to ask her something. "What?"

He looks at her a little irritatedly but it's buried beneath his concern. "What was your nightmare about?"

Nadia remains blank-faced as the images swarm her again, leaving her hollow and wrought with guilt. Unclenching her teeth, she makes herself relax as much as she can, shooting Theon a dismissive smile. With a wave of her hand she answers, "Nothing... okay not nothing. Just dreamt about the day I came here... Robb told you I drowned, didn't he?"

She'd said his name so casually, one wouldn't think he'd been ignoring her for the better part of a month. But Theon saw the minute grimace - just a tug of her lips - saw the slight distant look her eyes held when she spoke his friend's name; this Nadia is sure of. Even when he tells her he'll talk to Robb, knock some sense into the boy for his rudeness and callousness, Nadia tells him no. She tells him she doesn't care; that Robb can act like a prick if he wants, he's a Lord and she isn't a friend to him, just an inconvenience dropped onto his lap... okay so perhaps she doesn't share with Theon those last few thoughts of hers. Afterall, Robb is still his best friend and is still the Lord of Winterfell... soon to be King in the North.

 _'Soon? Could it really be that soon?'_

Sensing her distress, Theon reaches forward to gently squeeze her shoulder. "Don't worry," he consoles.

"I'm not worried." From the look on his face, she takes it he doesn't believe her. "I'm not!" she insists, "What do I have to be worried about?"

"How should I know?" he shrugs. Quickly, his smirk falls back into place as he adds, "You're a woman. As far as I know a woman's mind is scarier and more fucked up than all the seven hells put together." He chuckles at the look of mock-insult on her face, even as she throws a particularly hard blow to his arm. "Ow! Bloody hells!" he gasps one arm cradling the other like a babe. "Learn to pull your punches, woman." He's trying desperately hard to look upset with her, but she can hear the amusement in his voice.

Shaking her head she replies, "Not my fault you take a hit like a girl."

"You're a girl."

"I'm nineteen, that makes me a woman in both our worlds."

Smirking, he draws his eyes over her concealed figure, lingering on her chest where the sheets have molded against her breasts perfectly. "You certainly are," he affirms, husky toned but only teasing.

This time he dodges her swing but only just. Nadia glares at him, fighting off the heated blush rising to her cheeks; all the while he's smirking ridiculously at her expense. "Fuck off, Theon."

"Cannot," he replies with a slight sing-song quality. Nadia watches with kindred curiosity as he reaches behind his back to retrieve a scroll. When he holds it out to her, Stark sigil emblazoned in the waxy seal, Nadia doesn't hesitate to grab the letter from his grasp.

"Bran," she whispers the signed name, a smile on her face. Her eyes skim over the contents; subconsciously she inquires, "Did anything else come?"

"Just a letter for Lady Catelyn," he replies. His words capture her attention. Careful not to give herself away, she maintains a steady gaze on the page and nonchalantly inquires as to whether said Lady of Winterfell has returned yet.

Apparently not, according to Theon... "The rains may have delayed her return."

 _'Rains.. rains of what?'_ A bloody montage of her dreams flash before her eyes for a second but it's enough to have her stomach churning aggressively. Swallowing the rising bile, her throat burns with the sour flavour, yet her mind can only sense the taste of iron on her lips.

Nadia's eyes zero in on a single line in Bran's scroll, hoping to be able to focus her attention elsewhere but it does no favour for her.

Finally, reluctantly the dark-haired maiden manages to peel away from the page between her fingers, drawing her eyes up to match those of her friend. "Please lemme know when she's returned. I need to... discuss some... womanly stuff with her."

Theon's eyes narrow at her, scrutinising her. She thinks he's about to press her for answers. What she doesn't expect is, "You're pregnant aren't you?"

"...What!?"

"I noticed you've been eating more but I just chalked it up to stress-"

"Theon-"

"And I knew it was only a matter of time before one these lads would try-"

"Theon stop," she grunts between muffled chuckles yet he ignores her, continuing to ramble on teasingly.

"Can't imagine what you saw in them, when I've been waiting here all this time. But I won't behead you for poor taste-"

"Hey!"

"Oh and let's not forget the weight gain. Don't think it's slipped my attention-"

"You son of a bitch!" she gasps, somewhat infuriated at that last comment. Grabbing her pillow she begins to beat at him, completely ignorant of the fact that her sheet has dropped revealing her topless form, save for her bra.

Jumping up, Theon hurries towards the opening of her tent, a lascivious smirk on his scoundrel face. "Just kidding, love... got to be honest, I didn't take you for the kind to sleep so... exposed."

"OUT!" She yells, pitching a jug of water at him.

The sound of his laughter lingers a little after his cloak has disappeared from her tent. Embarrassed, frustrated and suddenly exhausted, she drops her head back onto her pillows, a pained groan slipping from her lips. "Dipshit," she curses. She thinks perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to kill Theon now. _'It wouldn't be so bad if he weren't your only friend.'_

Nope. Nada. She's not going to let herself feel any guilt or grief about the fate of this realm. Not today. She'll give herself this one day to just... be.

Bran's letter helps a little; it's a good start to the day at the very least. He speaks of how utterly boring Winterfell is with everyone gone, of how his duties make him want to stick a fork in his eyes and of Rickon acting up and disappearing for hours and hours on end, at one point even overnight. _'Turns up in the most eerie of places too: the mausoleum, the Godswood, his parents bedroom, Robb's...'_. Nadia recalls how once when she'd watched the first season, she'd thought Rickon might share Bran's gifts; Especially when he said those words... "No. No they won't. None of them will come back."

The rest of Bran's letter seems lighthearted enough. Maester Luwin sends his wishes and promises to write her soon. The ten year old made not a single mention of his dreams; she hopes that's a good sign.

When Nadia does eventually leave her tent, she awkwardly makes her way to the outskirts of the little camp, finding solace in the abandoned mill overlooking the Northern army. She'd discovered it a week back and nicknamed it her Fortress of Solitude. Here there isn't the constant buzz of men doing whatever the hell kind of crap it is men do when they're not fighting; a lot of the time it involves fucking whores from the nearby villages, a cacophony of sounds she most definitely has tried to erase from her memory but alas, just like 'Call me maybe', it will never leave her head.

The worst part is, the groans and grunts of whoring men isn't the worst sounds that haunt her mind. She'd been correct months ago, when she'd told Robb that her short period of vision-free bliss was just that - short. Ever since she'd taken up with his men, her nightmares have begun to return.

Nadia now wears a permanent scarf around her neck; a gag at the ready. Her fingers trail pale red marks that decorate her cheeks - a little miniscule rope burn never hurt nobody, she tells herself. The marks are barely visible and no one save Theon and Lady Stark actually take notice of her.

And if the nightmares aren't bad enough, the whispers…

 _"Who are you? A proud Lord, Ser, that I must bow so low?"_

Her hands fly to her head, the all too familiar numbness beginning to seep into her pores and she's unable to fight it; unable to resist the haunting hold those accursed voices have on her, dragging her deeper and deeper into their numbing depths, all the while setting her skin ablaze.

 _"A cloak of Gold. A cloak of Red…"_

Nadia stumbles back through the stones steps of the mill, collapsing against the inner walls. Her fingers fumble clumsily, stupidly with the cool material around her neck; she curses herself for each attempt of a knot that's come undone.

" _The Lion still has claws."_

Head pressed against the stones, she bites down on the gag so hard, she's afraid her teeth will shatter. No longer can she see the wall across from her nor the meadows outside, i . her periphery. All she can see red; red on the floor, red on the walls, red on her hands dripping down her body as a pool of the crimson liquid slithers so serpentine-like towards her. And in that red, in its fire and smoke, Nadia sees blue.

 _"And so we pour, we pour his heart. And no one there to hear."_

Then there's nothing. No whispers. No visions. Just one, muffled, scream.

Resurfacing from that dark place brings no relief, nothing but tragedy; it's the feeling of carrying a thousand burdens, an overwhelming plethora of grief and pity and anger and guilt. When Nadia resurfaces, she's almost in too much of a daze to notice the setting sun. Almost.

The nineteen year old cares not how others perceive her as she runs through the camp, dodging between men and animals, barely stopping to apologise. At any other time she would jest at how akin to a wildling she must look, pants instead of a skirt, unruly hair, lacking etiquette, indulging Theon's crass language. But not now. Not when she knows she can't trust to wait upon Catelyn any longer.

Nadia knows it's wrong, that she shouldn't mess with fate; she's done enough already just in telling Catelyn about the Red Wedding from the stories. But there's another part of her, something more innate, instinctive that screams at her to save Robb; she's not sure if it's guts or morals or the Harbinger.

It doesn't matter anyhow; whatever doubts she has flies out the window the moment she sets foot in his war tent. She doesn't care about the many other men gathered about, barely even sparing a glance at Theon. Obsidian eyes lock onto sapphire blue almost instantly.

Silent tension hangs over the tent and she can feel all eyes on her when she speaks, "We need to talk."

"That's how you speak to your Lord? I'd have you lashed for that sort of insolence," a voice says. There is no doubt in the girl's mind, that it belongs to none other than Roose Bolton. She pays him no mind. Stepping up to the table so that she's directly opposite the Stark heir, she forces herself to meet his gaze for the first time in weeks. Nadia pleads, "Ro-Lord Stark. We need to talk. Now."

He doesn't answer her for some moments and he looks pained as he does, as if speaking to her is torment enough, "Can it not wait, Lady Nadia."

She bites her tongue from correcting him, brows furrowing at the false entitlement. Instead she replies, "No. It can't." Nadia hopes to sound deep, curt. Yet all she hears in her words is the careful quaver of a desperate, frightened little girl.

An irritated expression breaks over his stoic facade. Robb looks ready to argue with her, but then pauses, attention captured by something behind her. "Mother," he nods, forcing Nadia to spin, wide-eyed and fearful of the news the woman brings. She tries to match Catelyn's eyes, begging with her own to know Catelyn denied Walder Frey as she asked. But the older woman simply glances away from her, looking to the men in the room. "May I speak with my son, please. Alone."

When she says alone, she directs it at the young Banshee, causing shivers to curl their way up Nadia's spine. A sensation that reminds her of the time she dreaded showing her parents her UMAT score. Still, Nadia doesn't budge, doesn't even flinch under Catelyn's indiscernable stare. She doesn't make a motion to move even when the other men do, not until Theon's having to practically drag her out. When the Ironborn tries to get her to talk, she pulls out of his grasp irritably, though pauses long enough to give him an apologetic look. "I need some time to myself."


	28. The Proposal

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Why yes I'm granting you guys another chapter so soon after the last and not being criminally evil like I have been the past 6 months and making you wait. Again really sorry about that guys. But know this: I am determined to see this story through to the end. No matter how long it takes. Hopefully not as long as Supernatural (but damn that's a good show).**

 **Anyway, if the above rant hasn't clued y'all in that I'm about to drop from caffeine and work overload then I don't know what will. So let's cut straight to the chapter.**

 **..Aaaaaaand SCENE!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or its characters. They are the property of George R R Martin and HBO. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **ROBB**

His eyes burned into the back of her skull, the entire time she stood there communicating silently with his mother. And even after some. He regrets to admit that a part of him wanted to call the banshee back as Theon pulled her away. The two of them have not spoken a word to each other since she'd futilely demanded he not wager with Walder Frey. Now, once again, Nadia's barging into his tent making demands of him? A crueler man would have had her lashed for her blunt ignorance and disrespect for order - as Roose Bolton had so kindly pointed out. Robb is not a crueller man, yet he is not any less perturbed by her performance. Speaking to him like that, in front of his men no less.

Has she so little regard for him? To speak to him like a mother berating her child. Speaking of mothers… the young Stark turns his attention to his own.

Her face betrays nothing, even after that little show between her and his _ward._ If the situation were not so serious, Robb would smirk at how Northern his mother seems this very moment.

Leaning forward, his fingers tap against the tabletop. "Well? What did he say?"

"Lord Walder has granted your crossing. His men are yours, as well."

Robb's brow furrows at this. "Huh."

"Less the 400 he will keep here to hold the crossing against any who would pursue you," she finishes with pursed lips and pinched brows. He knows that look. Catelyn Stark may profess to having an innate insight into her children's minds, but Robb can profess to know his mother well enough too. And he knows, well enough, that she keeps something from him.

"What does he want in return?"

"You will be taking on his son Olyvar as your personal squire. He expects a knighthood in good time."

"Fine, fine. And?"

"And Arya will marry his son Waldron when they both come of age."

He suppresses a groan. This is not something he'd dreamed of negotiating in a thousand years. Still he bites his tongue from saying anything he may regret. "She won't be happy about that. And?"

She hesitates. Perhaps she doesn't mean for him to see, but he does. Robb feels his stomach churn. "Mother," Robb pushes. Though he doesn't need to. He doesn't need to hear her words to know what she is about to say. Walder Frey has a reputation.

"When the fighting is done you will marry one of his daughters. Whichever you prefer. He has a number he thinks will be suitable."

"I see," he swallows thickly, practically tasting the bile on his tongue. "Did you get a look at his daughters?" If Theon were here, the bastard wouldn't hesitate to find humour in Robb's misfortune. He thanks the gods, that Theon is not here. That no one is here to see this humiliation. This jest.

"l did."

"And?"

"One was –" she cuts herself off, unable to find the appropriate words.

' _Or perhaps unable to find a kind word.'_

It's final it seems, when she meets his eyes. Robb resigns himself to his fate. What would any of it matter if he dies in battle before that? And should he free his father and his sisters, it would be a price worth paying. _'Perhaps I will find love with my Frey wife, just as mother and father did,'_ but even the voice in his head quivers with doubt, knowing just how rare it is to find true love in a loveless betrothal.

Chin resting upon closed fists, his stare penetrates the flagon of mead before him; the young Stark begins to see the sense in King Robert's addiction to the toxic substance.

From the corner of his eye, the figure of his mother moves towards him, taking the seat next to him. Her fingers, trembling and weak from an assassin's dagger, still find the strength to force his head to turn; the trails into the dark auburn locks surrounding his face, much like they had done when he was a boy, much like he has seen a certain raven-haired maiden do a thousand times with his youngest brothers.

Tully blue orbs seek his own and the sadness behind them is too much for him. One hand cups his face, the other seeks his own, squeezing them gently. A bittersweet smile paints itself across her face when she speaks, just above a whisper, "Your father and I wanted all of you to marry for love. Sansa I could not help... that fat King ordered it and she would have begged till my ears bled-" they share a sad smile at the memory of his stubborn sister, full of fantasies of gallant knights and princes, "You do not have to do this Robb," she insists.

He pulls away from her hands, rising from his seat. Turning his back on her, the young man's gaze locks on his sigil reflecting in the banners decorating the room. His father's sigil. With clenched fists, Robb resigns, "It is already done."

His eyes are closed but he hears her make her way behind him. "What if there is another option?

* * *

Robb's not sure how he feels let alone what he ought to say to Nadia, only that he has to say something to her. Men send curious looks his way, as he approaches her tent, making it increasingly evident to him that his ignorance of his ward hasn't gone unnoticed. A small part of him realises now it may have been reckless to treat her the way he did.

Especially if other men have taken notice of her.

Nadia had done nothing wrong per se. She had done nothing at all, really. An argument could be made that she has done some good with her time in this world, but the jury's out on that.

It suddenly occurs to Robb how she had plead with him to let her serve him in aiding his men medically. She doesn't have to, she owes him nothing, having repaid her life debts by saving Bran and his mother. _'That's the issue though. She owes me nothing but still risks her life in following me.'_

Sometimes he wonders if she's even calculated the risk of her dying in the field. Robb doubts it, or else she wouldn't have come.

His feet come to a standstill before her tent. He takes a few moments to deliberate, deciding finally to abandon his mission altogether, knowing it to be truly absurd. However her the sound of something shattering and her familiar cussing voice catches him, echoing through her tent flaps, "Ow! Son of a-"

"Nadia?" The way she jumps up at his voice is so comical, Robb has to work to keep the amused look off his face. Her own betrays an array of emotions from shock, to suspicion to sadness, very quickly bringing his own down.

His eyes run over her, not missing the way her foot hustled something out of his view with a quick kick or how she is not so discreetly hiding her hands behind her back.

"Lord Stark," she nods stiffly.

Nodding at her concealed hands, he asks what she hides.

"Nothing..."

He moves towards her and raises his hand in silent request. In turn she raises an eyebrow. "You want me to read your palms? Too bad, I'm not really into the whole astrology, foreshadowing crap."

"Give me your hand." She proffers her left first and it's perfectly fine. Then with reluctance, she shows him her right. Before her fist can even open, blood drips from beneath her clenched knuckles to his own palm.

"It's just a scratch."

"A scratch?" he's incredulous. What was she scratched by? A lion?

"Okay so maybe scratch isn't the right word. How about... teensy little cut?"

"Close enough," Robb snorts. "How did this happen?"

Nadia is quiet a few seconds, swaying a little awkwardly before stepping aside and revealing pieces of shattered mirror glass tucked under the table. "I knocked it over, "she says looking him straight in the eye.

"How?"

"What do you mean how? My hand hit the mirror, mirror fell off table, I tried picking the pieces up, and sliced my hand accidentally."

"Then why try to hide it?"

Nadia shrugs, "Didn't want to look clumsy."

Robb Stark doesn't know much about her but knows one thing for sure: Arya has more grace than Nadia. In the months he's known her, she has managed to collide with just about anything, beds, tables, chairs, shelves, doors, walls, fences, people. Even then it made her bashful a little, sure - and perhaps a little too _expressive_ verbally - but never embarrassed enough to hide away like any other girl probably would have sans Arya. Nadia is surprisingly sturdy, resilient, easily plays of her mortification - especially when Theon teases her lack of sexuality, a feat in itself. Which is why Robb doesn't believe her.

"You're lying to me." She's about to rebut, but he cuts her off. "Did you have a vision and drop it?"

"No."

"...Did you throw the mirror?"

She doesn't answer him, only purses her lips, which tells Robb enough. He sighs, tugging his shirt a little tearing the hem off. Ignoring Nadia's protests, Robb manages to manhandle her into sitting on a chair, while he rinses and bandages her palm. The silence that hangs between them is suffocatingly thick with tension; before him Nadia tries to mute her fidgeting, the little erratic bounce in her knee, the circles she draws over and over with her left index finger.

He assumes it becomes too much for her, because she soon asks, "How did you know I was lying?"

He glances at her curious dark gaze. "You didn't look away from me." She furrows her brows in confusion, so he explains, "You're shyer than you make out. You never hold gazes long because it makes you feel uncomfortable, even with people you're familiar with. But when you lie, you hold eye contact, as if you're daring a person to call your bluff."

"Isn't looking people in the eye a sign of truth?"

"Perhaps... but you're funny way that way. Besides, it's more like you're looking through them than at them. You don't want people to see what's in your eyes."

Robb can't help the small surge of pride he gets seeing the odd little smile she tries to conceal at his words, her blush and dimples betraying her.

"How'd you figure that?"

"You did that when Theon and I tried to make you pancakes."

"I didn't hate your pancakes!"

"You certainly didn't like them."

"...okay so they were crap. With a capital C."

They both bite back smiles, but it's too much, and Robb finds himself chuckling lightly along with her. He fondly recalls that day that seemed so long ago. He and Theon had given into the girl's badgering to teach her to use a bow and arrow; after two hours of little progress, Theon bet her if she could hit the target, they'd cook for her. It was a bet she regretted winning, based on the look on her face as she struggled to stomach the pancakes they plated for her.

Looking at her now, Robb felt his heart twinge. A sad quiet fills the space between them as they smiles drop away. She turns away from him, her dark gaze seeking out something else to purchase. His own gaze lingers before returning to her hand. Knotting the ripped cloth, he gives her hand an awkward pat. "I'm sure you know how to take care of it."

She nods. "Thank you, Lord Stark," she mutters when he's done. The man can't help but grimace at the title. It's the way she says it, as if there's a blade on her tongue; she forces herself to say it, bitterness and quiet resentment poorly masked in her polite tone.

Before he realises it, he tells her to stop... "You've never called me that. Not when it's just us."

"Thought you only reserved that privilege for friends and family." She says it sort of teasingly, lightheartedly yet he can still hear the scathing intent in the bashful smile that doesn't reach her eyes. He schools himself from hitting back with his own biting remark. Yet somehow she knows she hit a nerve. Her bitter smile slackens, growing softer, kinder. "I'm sorry," she sighs.

"Nadi-"

She shakes her head, "You're planning a war to save your family. It's stressful. I get that."

Robb pushes back, rising to his feet. "I'm not stressed. I just-"

"Don't trust me," she cuts him off, the matter-of-fact intonation clear in her voice. Her uninjured hand reaches for his, hesitating only for a second, before her fingertips brush against his. When he doesn't pull away, she slowly, slides them further, entwining her hand with his own. "Hey, I don't blame you. I'm not going to pretend to be some guardian angel who can miraculously fix all your problems. And I told you I most definitely will not play God. I can't have that on my conscience."

"And what about the people, innocent people you could save?" he demands, albeit more gently than he had ever done before.

"When I tried that, you didn't wanna listen," she replies, soft though it cuts him like a razor blade. He can feel her gaze boring into the side of his face but he shamefacedly refuses to meet it with his own. Instead he turns his attention to Nadia's small cot. The furs and blankets are strewn with chaotic organisation, books and scrolls lying open as if she'd just been studying them. His sharp blue eyes take note of the small leather-bound book tucked discretely beneath the edge of her cot, its brown tip just protruding. At the back of his mind he wonders why she hides it.

What's more troubling is the guilt he feels. He should have listened to her. Maybe then his mother would never have had to bargain with Walder Frey. Maybe then he wouldn't be in this position.

"You should never have come." Her face falls at his words. "You should have stayed in Winterfell, with Bran and Rickon. You're better off there. You' would have been safer there."

A brief look of confusion crosses her copper-skinned features. "Careful, I might actually start to think you care," she teases half-heartedly. But when he makes no motion to answer, her mirth falls again. "You're actually worried about me?" Robb dislikes the incredulity he hears. "I can literally see death coming. It's your life I'm more concerned about."

He recalls Theon's words from when they'd first set out from Winterfell: _'She's here for you.'_

"I suppose then, I owe you my thanks," he says.

"Thanks?"

"I don't know what you said to my mother... but I appreciate it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Walder Frey," he answers. A look of understanding followed by confusion crosses her face.

"Why would you be thanking me? It's a bridge for a bride... isn't it?" If ever asked, Robb would deny that a small part of him wanted to hear the hope in her voice.

He stares at her a few seconds before allowing a charming smirk to creep across his face. "Not if I already have a bride."

* * *

 **A/N Pls review! Constructive criticism is welcome. Flames will be met with Fury!**

 **Have a good one, everybody**


	29. Truth's a bitch

**VERY IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: PLEASE READ!**

 **If you guys have read up to this chapter before the 11 of February, then you would have realised that the ending of this chapter is very different. In the original chapter, Nadia was sent away from Robb's tent upon threat to her life after revealing the damaging, soul-crushing news that Ned will be killed. I received a few responses where Readers were unhappy with this ending for similar reasons all pertaining to this circle of arguing that Nadia and Robb appear to be stuck in. I've gone back and read the chapter and realised that I agree and was unhappy. For that reason, I've decided to repost this chapter with an altered ending that I think speaks volumes to how their relationship will develop and also how Nadia and Robb as individuals will begin to shape out.**

 **So long-story short, this chapter will be replacing the old chapter 29, and then the story will continue from there.**

 **I hope y'all like how this one turned out. I know I do.**

 **Now onto the story...So without further ado...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its Characters. They are the property of HBO and George R R Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

NADIA

 _The sun bears down, bright and blinding. The distant scent of salty sea breeze intermingles with that of pissed squallors, the dung of animals and men masked by that of sweet perfumes that burn her senses. There's a low thrum, like of a live wire, of crowds of people going about their business. Yet there is not a single person in sight._

 _Nadia stumbles through unfamiliar cobblestone alleyways, following the invisible crows. She bears a mask of confusion, her head turning side to side, tripping over her own feet as she turns everywhich way, searching for some shred of physical evidence of the bodies that have swept her into their tide. There are h_ _ushed whispers of people as they pass each other by. Some calling to one another, telling them to come. To behold the spectacle. Boy king, she hears. Traitor, too. Lies. Deceit. Dishonour. Black._

 _She's swept into an open square. A statue of a man dominates the court. Upon his shoulder, a sleek, black raven. Nadia tikts her head, suspiciously. The avian mirrors the action. It blinks then. Three eyes._

 _Before any words can pass her lips, the creature lets out a loud squawk. He raises his wings, sweeping down from his perch, low over her head as she ducks to let it pass. Her eyes try to follow the ravdn but fall short upon a man she hadn't noticed before._

 _A man who hadn't been there before._

 _There's something uncomfortably familiar about him. His hair is ragged, his skin pale and sallow, dried blood and dirt caked across his cheeks and forehead. He looks as if he hasn't had a decent meal nor shower nor bed to sleep in, for weeks. He stands as if he carries a limp, favouring one leg over the other. A noose is tied arojnd his neck, shackles lock his hands and feet._

 _An invisble force knocks him to his knees. The man manages to catch himself from falling off his perch. His head remains bowed for a few seconds. In this time, Nadia finds herself inching closer to the stage, to the man._

 _With shaken breath, he raises his head, bringing his gaze to meet hers. The girl hears her breath hitch, her voice catching in the back of her throat._

 _She'd know those eyes anywhere._

 _For so long she'd thought Robb had his mother's eyes. Now she realises how wrong she was. He may share the Tully blue, but Robb has none of their softness, wide-eyed, youthful look. No, his eyes were hard and hooded, steely and chilling as a frostbite yet fiery with emotion all at once - much like the man before her._

 _Nadia's eyes trace over his face, once again taking in the somewhat hollowed, dirt streaked cheeks, noting the strong unflinching jaw and hard lines of stress. She can imagine he must have been quite a catch as younger man. She imagines he looked a lot like Robb sans the colouring._

 _Her lips part, but her voice falls silent upon them. She's unable to say his name, for fear of affirmation. A shiver runs down her spine, making her hands tremble. She silently wishes to melt into the ground - anything to rid her of the pit of anxiety she'd been feeling for months now. Anything to not see this moment._

 _He smiles at her then, something in his expression that tells her he knows. He understands. It doesn't help the guilt that swells up._

 _"Take care of them," he says, voice low, gruff as if he hadn't used it in a while._

 _From somewhere, she hears a distinct 'schnict' - the sound of metal swiping through the air. The girl flinches, turning away at the last moment._

 _A beat of silence._

 _Her heart hammer loudly, deafening. Her fists clench tight, nails threatening to break through the skin of her palms._

 _A raven's caw echoes about her. Holding her breath, Nadia forces her eyes open. The body is gone, though blood stains the platform and ground beneath her feet. The scent is pungent and... wrong. An idd feeling settles in her stomach. Wrong. It's all she can think as her focus remains trained on the slow soreading pool of blood._

 _The raven caws at her again. Her eyes raise to it where its taken perch on the hilt of a great sword, larger than any she could imagine. What remains of the noose is split by the sharp metal; his shackles lay around the weapon._

 _Sound becomes still. The wind, the waves, the voices of the unseen crowds, the shuffle of her feet on stone. The cawing of the raven. She likens it to being immersed in water, where sounds are distorted, augmented and quieted. It's like being aware of everything and nothing all at once._

"...ady...ou alright... My Lady!"

Nadia's head snaps to the left. A man towers over her, about 6'4"in height, his hazel eyes bearing down on her with undue confusion and concern.

"What?" she asks dumbly.

He stares at her as if she's the strangest thing he's ever seen. Glancing down at herself, she supposes she is.

Clearing his throat, the man says, "I was asking if you were alright, my lady."

"Oh, yea-yes. Of course I am," she chuckles awkwardly, realising she'd been caught in trance. "I was just - um - admiring the, um," she waves her hands in the general direction of where she'd been staring moments earlier - her face falls blank. "Swords," she bites out distastefully. Stacked outside a swordsmith's tent, they weapons glisten in the sunlight, their edges frightfully sharp. She's familiar with the swordsmith, a man from Winterfell's forge who'd she'd seen several times in passing. Through the shadows of the tent she can just barely see him hard at work hammering away, his face turned away. She only knows it to be him because of the array of swords on display. Or one in particular. Robb's is mounted atop the stack she points at now. It's so much smaller than the one she'd envisioned only moments earlier, yet the style and make was so similar. Clearly Robb's had been designed to imitate his father's as much as possible... a sick feeling settles over her stomach.

"You like swords, then?" a voice distracts her from her own distracting thoughts.

"Yes!" she answers too quickly, and the man raises a brow at her sceptically. Smiling sheepishly, she shakes her head. "No, not really. I don't know a thing about them... or weapons in general." She adds: "Doesn't mean I can't admire."

He grins. "No it does not, my lady."

Her grin falters. "Nadia, please. I'm not used to _titles_ ," she explains, using air quotes.

"I suppose it must be strange for someone like you."

Furrowing her brows and pursing her lips, she asks, "Someone like me?"

His eyes widen. He tries to explain, probably feeling guilty about possibly insulting her, but stutters hopelessly in his efforts. Wishing to put the poor man out of his misery, Nadia chuckles lightly, offering him a gingerly smile. "It's okay. I know what you mean."

He returns her smile. ' _He's handsome,'_ she thinks, biting her lip subconsciously, shyly. "It must be strange for you," he says after a short moment. He gestures about them, "All _this_ must be confusing for you."

"Confusing? No. Strange and bit scary? Yes."

He grins at her. "Just a _bit_ scary?"

She shrugs. "Let's just say, I've seen a lot in my life."

"Most women would prefer the safety of their husband's keep to the frontlines."

"Most women would," she agrees.

"But not you," the way he says it, it doesn't sound like a question. More like he's trying to figure her out.

She shakes her head, her expression taut with secrets. "Not exactly," she replies, a slightly haunted tone to her voice.

They fall into a short - but not unpleasant - silence. The silence comes to an abrupt end by Theon. The ironborn claps the other man on the shoulder, butting himself between the pair. "I see you've met Torrhen Karstark, my-"

"Yes, I have," she interrupts Theon. Turning her attention back to Torrhen, the pit in her stomach returning, she adds, "Although I didn't know his name."

"I apologise," Torrhen grins sheepishly.

"Don't." Another friendly silence. Theon coughs. Nadia raises a brow at him but he only shrugs innocently.

Torrhen's gaze shifts back and forth between the friends. He shifts awkwardly on his feet. "I should go," he says, garnering the banshee's attention. If she looks a little put out, he doesn't seem to notice. Shooting her one last smile, he nods at them both and leaves.

Nadia can't help it when her gaze lingers. She barely recognises his name, but realises who he is. Or at least what will become of him. Her mouth goes dry, the heavy weight she bears becoming more prominent, even moreso as her mind flickers back to the vision she'd seen.

Beside her, Theon clears his throat again. He looks at her pointedly, then flickers his gaze to the direction of where Torrhen had left. She realises that it must have looked like she was staring after the young Karstark. Having an inkling of where Theon's thoughts may be running, she rolls her eyes at him. "Relax, nothing happened."

"It didn't look like that."

"I just met the guy."

"Something tells me you'd like to be better _acquainted_ with him."

"Oh, Theon! Grow up-" she shoves her friend, shouldering past him.

"And judging by the way he was looking at yo-"

Coming to an abrupt halt, she spins on her feet. The ironborn just manages to catch himself before running her over. Her cheeks have the faintest blush in them, and all she wants to do is punch the smug look off Theon's face. "I am not discussing this with you."

"Since when did you become such a prude?" he whines, circling around her as she storms away from him.

"For your information I was always a prude."

"A dirty-minded one."

The young woman shoots him a narrow glare, despite the tiniest of grins threatening to pull at her lips. Rolling her eyes, she bumps shoulders with him. "You're a jackass."

He chuckles, matching her step for step and then some. "So what were you two talking about?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Curiousity."

"Haven't you heard. Curiosity killed the cat."

Theon frowns. "No."

Nadia rolls her eyes, muttering, "Nevermind," under her breath. Theon persistence is only shortlived - afterall his attention span can be as short as hers. They eventually lapse into conversation of the antics the men got up to the night before. That is, Nadia mostly listens while Theon greatly exaggerates, rolling her eyes every so often while trying to fight off the grin on her face.

Their conversation eventually takes a turn for the dour. "You spoken to Robb?"

Nadia sighs, "Not recently."

"And by recently-"

"A few days, Theon. He's been... busy. Planning a war and all..." she trails off, grimacing. She'd fucked up. She can admit that. Had she been rational about it... she thought so... no she'd been selfish and scared and abused Robb's hospitality. She knew she should have left Winterfell the moment Robb had released her from the chains; but for all the intelligence she likes to think she has, Nadia had no doubt that she wouldn't have survived long on her own, with her dignity (for the most part) intact. She'd been a bitch for lack of better word. Not wanted to get involved, not wanted to die since nearly everything and everyone associated with the name Stark seems to die. She'd not meant to get attached to the children, nor had she meant to develop an odd sort of friendship with Theon and Robb. If she hadn't then perhaps the sting of her betrayal wouldn't have angered him as much... or maybe it would have angered him more. Maybe whatever slight fondness they'd shared is the only thing standing between herself and death.

Maybe then she wouldn't be awkwardly trying to dismiss herself from Theon's presence right now. He catches her wrist, though before she can escape. "I know you're not telling us-him things. Lots of things. But there are some things you should tell him."

"I know that," she mumbles, shuffling awkwardly.

"Like maybe why you didn't want him to marry Frey's daughter."

Nadia shakes her head. "Not that."

"Why not? It might save you a lot of trouble," Theon demands, looking at her knowingly. "Might even make things simpler between the two of you."

"I just can't."

"The same way you couldn't tell him about his father?"

Nadia bites her lip. She avoids his burning gaze, ashamed. "No," her breath catches in her throat. Heat flushes across her skin, as if the guilt she feels is prickling at her every nerve ending. Her hands form tight fists, her nails digging into her skin, threatening to break through. The woman sighs, "I was wrong not to tell him."

"You could have stopped all of this," Theon hisses, some of his frustration coming through, despite the gentle expression he tries to maintain.

"I know," she bites out, her words feeling thick in her throat. She feels hot, and wants nothing more than to tear off her cloak and jump in the river. A dull throb begins to swell in her head, aching. She clenches her jaw as if the pressure would alleviate the pain. It doesn't. _'I need to lie down.'_

"Can I go, now?" she asks, desperate to get away. "Please."

He lets her go.

Her feet quicken when she hears the distant but familiar call of the raven.

* * *

 _The sun bears down on Nadia, the distant ocean breeze doing nothing to quell the heat. Bare feet burn against the scorching stone. Familiar alleyways she passes by, following the invisible voices around her, the loud bustling pushing and pulling her like a tide._

 _Her steps fall short of the statue. The raven glares down up her, its three unblinking eyes staring through her soul._

 _"Harbinger," a voice echoes, rough and gravelly. It's the voice of a man who has had no use for it. Dry and parched, hoarse and thirst upon his lips. Nadia glares at the crow. She doesn't want to turn. Not again. How many times has it been now. Her fists clench at her sides._

 _The raven caws at her wildly, it's voice like thunder, demanding she_ look _. She shakes her head, pursing her lips._

 _Schinct. The sound of a metal passing through the air. Gasps and jeers. A moroseful cry, a girl begging, weeping, cursing._

 _Something wet brushes against her heels. It's viscous and heavy, sliding, slithering like snakes beneath and upon her feet. She holds a shuddering breath, the contents of her stomach threatening to lurch up at any moment, growing steadily worse with each passing second that the acrid scent of iron lingers in the air._

 _"Take care of them," the man's voice says. "Take care of them. Take care-"_

The sheets fall away as she lurches forward. The camisole stick to her sweat-slicked skin uncomfortably, as does her messy hair. Brushing her fingers through her dark locks, Nadia sweeps her hair back into a low bun, giving no fucks for neatness. Her hands reach for the flask of water at her bedside and she greedily gulps the liquid down, hoping to quell the uneasiness in her stomach. Trying to relax back against her pillows, she takes note of the sheet that had been drawn over her.

She swears she'd gone without it. Replacing her flask, her eyes fall on a note she'd not noticed before. She can tell already that the handwriting belongs to Catelyn. Groaning, Nadia throws an arm over her face. She had been asleep for hours and now it was well beyond dusk, and well beyond the time she'd agreed to join Lady Stark for dinner. In her absence, it would seem the older woman had come looking for her, and no doubt found Nadia in the midst of a fitful sleep. The only comfort the lady could offer was to cover her sleeping figure, which despite the sweat, Nadia realises is actually rather cold. The kind gesture does nothing to make her feel better.

Biting her lip, she pushes the sheets aside and peels off her top. Taking a wet rag, she quickly cleans her skin of the sweat and salty stench - by god, how she misses modern plumbing. She slips into a pair of legging, throws on a long-sleeved wrap top and hops into her boots as she stumbles out of the tent.

A few men pay her attention, nodding at her politely in passing. She catches sight of Torrhen, her smile widening just a little bit at his familiar face.

She stops before a tent. Taking a deep breath, Nadia tries and fails to calm her nerves. "Just do it," she mutters to herself. "Rip the bandaid off." Parting the curtains, she enters the tent... only to find it empty. She sighs - whether it's out of disappointment of relief, she knows not.

Glancing around, she takes in the _decor_. It's similar to Lady Cat's in size, larger than her own for sure. On one side a small desk mounted with various notes, scrolls and blank parchment as well as a few lit candles. To the other side is a bed, covered in more furs than she'd ever used at Winterfell - she supposes it's more out of sentimentality for the North than practicality. Beside that a few chests, a mannequin bearing his armour. Nadia shuffles closer to inspect it. She'd never had the chance to properly examine it. The sigil of House Stark howls loud and proud from the chest plate, the metal shimmering in the pale candlelight. There's some scratches, from a few close scuffles during training, though they are few and far between. Curious hands brush against the steel, feeling the cool smoothness between her touch.

Nadia's taken aback by how demure she feels. She's always been on the curvy side of life, but the mere width of the chest plate makes her feel so fragile and small, much like she does whenever she's around Robb or Theon. She can imagine what it would be like to stand beside Robb when he bears his armour; he'd be an imposing sight, no doubt.

Drawing her eyes back down from the shoulders, she catches a shadowy reflection standing behind her, a pair of piercing blue eyes staring into her own. Turning, she meets his bemused gaze. "Always taking me by surprise," she says somewhat awkwardly.

"Could say the same for you." There's an obvious bitterness beneath the forced pleasantry of his tone. His brows furrow at her sheepish figure. "What are you doing here?"

Clearing her throat, she hesitantly answers, "I wanted to talk to you about something." He doesn't answer her. Turning away, Robb moves to the table she'd ignored (purposefully) till now. The map of Westeros is laid bare across it as well as little figurines marking the various armies. Robb ignores these for the bottle of mead. He pours a cup, offering it to her. Nadia declines politely. As much as she would love some liquid courage, she'd rather not take anything more from him. Shrugging, he downs some of it himself, then looks at her expectantly. "Does this have something to do with the bargain made to Walder Frey?"

She nods stiffly, "Sort of."

He stares at her a moment, studying her. "You're not happy about it," he notes.

"I'm confused."

He frowns. "What's confusing about it? You've already said your piece on the matter," he bites out irritably.

"I know," she answers, forcing herself to remain calm. "It's not that, it's just..." she sighs, planting her hands on the table, bowing her forward to take a calming breath. Her eyes focus in on the little wolf figurines. "Why do you want to cross the Twins?"

"... You're joking right?"

"No, I'm not, actually," she looks at Robb, face serious, ignoring his unimpressed expression. "Explain it to me."

"It's the fastest way to Riverrun."

"Why do we need to go to Riverrun?"

"To help them. They're under seige," he explains to her, caught between exasperation, frustration and silently questioning her stupidity.

"I know that... but I just. I don't understand _why_? I mean, Riverrun can withstand a siege for years can't they?"

"Well, yes, but-"

"Then why don't you want to march straight on King's Landing? Isn't the whole point of this to get your dad back?"

"We need numbers, Nadia," he explains to her as if she is a child. "We wouldn't last against the city's defences, and that's after going through Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork."

Licking her lips, Nadia shakes her head. "Well then what about a small force to break him out. Smuggle him back here."

"It's too risky," Robb shakes his head.

"Everyone here is willing to lay down their life to save your father-"

"I said no, Nadia!" The girl falls silent. Robb glares at her, replacing his cup and leaning forward. "I send a few men. Even if they do manage to sneak into the city, what then? What if they get caught? Joffrey will rule my father as guilty of the crimes laid against him and execute him immediately."

"What if they don't get caught?

"Do you think this is easy for me?" he seethes. "Do you think any of _this_ is has been easy. Risking my men's lives, gambling the North. Do you think I don't know what those men out there whisper when they think my head has turned. About how foolish I am, how hopeful I am-"

"They don't think that, Robb," Nadia says lowly, trying hopelessly to soothe his growing anxieties.

Robb snarls but says nothing more. He bows his head, white knuckles curved against the dark wood of the table. "It's too much risk. We-we can't. Not until we have the numbers."

Pursing her lips, Nadia blinks away the tears she feels brimming at her eyes. Why does she feel so emotional all of a sudden? Her right hand reaches out to him, hovering hesitantly near his fist, before retracting back to her side. She doubts that he'd want her touching him after everything that's happened between them, especially after what she has to say next. Licking her dry lips, she exhales his name, feeling like the axe has been dropped in her stomach. "Robb," she repeats a little louder, unsure if he heard her the first time. "He's going to die," she manages to bite out.

Blue eyes flash up to meet hers, anger and confusion battling behind those icy orbs. They tell her _"go on, explain"._ Nadia swallows her nerves. "Your father... Joffrey's gonna execute him."

One moment, he's bowed low over his table, finger threatening to break apart the wood. The next moment, the young Lord has her back up with no escape, his fingertips imprinting bruises upon her arms where he holds her tight. He's snarling at her like a starving dog, and yet his eyes are so full of childish petulance. If she weren't afraid, Nadia would be considering yet again how young he is, how he is still only a boy. How if he were in her world his biggest problems would be girls or vying for captain of some sports team, getting his red P's and getting into Uni - not this, not war, not risking his family's life, not dying.

Yet, despite being the older of the two, she feels like a child in his grasp, small in comparison to the wall of muscle towering over her. Heated blue eyes bore into her own, his hot breath like ice on her face. "Tell me you're lying," he begs her. "Tell me."

She shakes her head slightly. "I wish I could," her voice sounds broken to even her. She watches his face fall, reminding her of why she never wanted to tell him in the first place. She didn't want to see this much pain, this much anger, this much disappointment mar his handsome face.

Quiet seconds pass them by. His hands loosen, sliding down slowly over her arms before falling away to his side, merely inches from her own. Robb's voice is pained growl, "When?"

"I-I'm not sure _exactly_ when but... it's some time after you take back Riverrun."

Robb's eyes widen, guilt and torment bleeding into his quiet rage. Realising where his mind has gone, she moves to quickly dispell him of his thoughts... "It's not because of that, not because of _you_. Robb, your father he would have died anyway," the girl winces at her own words. "I mean, Joffrey was always going to execute him."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he demands, though his voice is barely a whisper, unwanted tears threatening to spill.

"Because... I don't want this. I hate being a banshee. I hate having to deliver the bad news."

"Then why tell me now?" there's a threat in there somewhere, she feels.

"I just- I didn't want you to hate me more than you already do," she answers truthfully. Closing her eyes, because she doesn't want to see anymore of his disappointment and doesn't want him to see her shame, she continues, "And I know how incredibly selfish that is. I should have told you sooner. I should have- I just thought, that maybe, maybe there's still time. Maybe there's something we can do."

When she finally opens her eyes, Robb's back is partially turned on her again. He's bowed low over the map, glaring at the Lion figurine prancing about the words _King's Landing_. His curly locks does well to obscure his features, but even in the shadows of the tent's candlelight, she can make out the distinct sheen of a tear stain streaking over his stubbled cheek.

She dares not move an inch to comfort him, as much as she'd like. Maybe in another time, maybe if she'd made different choices. But at the moment their alliance is anything but steady.

A few long silences drag out. "What of my sisters," Robb finally asks, breaking the silence.

Nadia swallows. "They're - umm," Robb turns to her slightly, catching her eye. Nadia takes a deep breath. "They'll live. But... they're not safe. They're never safe. Arya will escape King's Landing and she'll constantly be on the run. But she's smart and cunning. She'll see horrific things -" the banshee feels winded images of a wolf's head sown atop a man's body - Robb's body - coming to mind, "She'll learn to fight. She'll become a warrior... an assassin," at this Robb sucks in a breath, no doubt struggling to come to terms with the idea of his sweet, mischievous sister becoming a killer. "And Sansa-" he glances up at Nadia as she continues, "She'll be a prisoner. A bird in a gilded cage. A pawn for the Lannisters, for Petyr Baelish and..." she hesitates to say Bolton's name, knowing that as wretched as the man is, his betrayal of Robb comes at the cost of Robb's own foolish hand at politics, so instead Nadia tells the Stark, "-and she'll always be under threat of murder, of rape... but she'll eventually escape King's Landing. She'll barter and be bartered, she'll play the game as well as Cersei has taught her. She's a true Stark... they both are," Nadia tries to end on a note that promises a hopeful future for the girls well after their pain and sufferings, but even she cannot predict what will become of them. The last thing she knows is that Sansa's safe with Jon in Winterfell and Arya just slaughtered the Frey's.

Robb tries to force a smile at the sentiment she offers, but it's all in vain. "There's no saving him then?" he whispers, defeated. "Any of them."

"I don't know," she whispers.

Figurines scatters to the floor, a chair snapping against the earth as if it were a twig. Robb's shoulders rise and fall with each heaving breath. The young man is struggling to control his haywire emotions. Nadia can see this, and despite the flashing Danger sign in her brain, she steps closer to him, reaching out to him, her hand making contact with the the leatherskin on of his vest. "I'm sorry," she whispers again.

"What is the point in all of this!" he hisses loathingly. "Anything I do and seal their fates. My father, my sisters, my men!"

"Your cause was worthy, Robb-"

"Worthy?" he laughs spitefully, turning to face her. "I am marching men and women to their deaths to save a dead man."

"So what? Now you want to turn back? Tail between your legs?" Nadia questions him.

"Shouldn't I? If it means saving them."

"You think surrendering is going to save anyone?" Nadia asks.

"My father-"

"Will still be killed," she cuts him off. "All Joffrey sees is a threat. Do you think Cersei told him to kill your father? She didn't. Joffrey is out of control. He's afraid. Your father is meant to confess to his supposed crimes in order to protect your sisters; his sentence would have been to join the Black. Instead of pardoning him, Joffrey asks for his head." Robb winces, looking as if he's been slapped. She supposes he has, with the way she's practically lecturing him on the details of his father's imminent murder. "If you bend the knee now after threatening to dethrone him, it's only a matter of time before he asks for your head too. And then do you think the Northerners would stand behind you?"

"They did when the Targaryens first came."

"Yeah well you're not Torrhen Stark-" and maybe Robb does look a little surprised that she knew the name - "It's not all lost Robb," she presses, stepping closer to him. "This kingdom deserves better than a Lannister on the Iron Throne."

"I don't want a crown."

"I'm not saying you have to wear it. Just give it to someone worthy of the burden."

"Like who?" he asks. Given her pause, he adds, "Let me guess, you don't know."

"I'm-"

"Sorry?" he cuts her off. "You've said that once or twice. Honestly I've lost count. You just keep apologising but never seem to do anything about it." She flinches as if she's been slapped. Honestly with the way this conversations going, she's surprised her head still attached to her head what with the whiplash Robb's giving her. _'He's such a boy,'_ a valley-girl voice in her head taunts.

Pursing her lips, her eyes narrowed with well-kept annoyance, she asks, "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me what I am supposed to do. For once be useful, give me direction instead of half-truths and omens," he tells her, orders her, yet again sounding like a petulant child asking for guidance. She realises that at this moment, he's willing to put an inane amount of trust on her, more than he's ever given her as yet - which is saying something given recent affairs. Nadia wants to help, she does. She wants to give him advice, but she's not battle strategist, she's no politician. She's just a girl trying to figure out her place in this mess as much as he is.

Perhaps her expression gives her away, for his face hardens, grim and sullen. And disappointed. It's nothing new for Nadia, though it doesn't hurt any less. She glances away from him, her eyes landing on the half askew map. Her eyes narrows as they traipse up from east to west about the mid-section of Westeros. From King's Landing to the Twins to Riverrun to Green Fork. Circling. She feels like a vulture looking for carrion, for some prize, for some answer. _'More like a dragon,'_ the wittier part of her mind supplies. It also happens to be the same part of her brain that has no filter for inappropriate jokes and babbling. Before her mind can run away again, she latches onto a single term. Dragon.

She turns away from Robb, straightening out the map.

In her mind she hears a man's voice whisper, _"...built to withstand an attack from the land..."_

Her eyes settle on the picture of ruins. "What is it?" she hears Robb ask.

 _"A million men could have marched on these walls and a million men would have been repelled... But an attack from the air with dragonfire..."_

"Harrenhal," she whispers.

"The Castle ruins?"

"It could still withstand an attack, couldn't it?" she asks, eyes still trained on the map. Robb observes her quietly, nodding only when her inquisitive gaze turns upon him. "Okay," she breathes, turning back to the map once again. The gears in her mind slowly turning, second-guessing herself every half-second reminding her that she's no strategist. But what if...

What if works.

What if it saves Robb's army.

What if it can save Ned and the girls.

"You were going split the men," she tells him. "Split up at the Blue fork. Two thousand to meet Tywin Lannister at the Green Fork. The rest to overpower the seige at Riverrun," she looks back at Robb, looking to him for confirmation. He does well to hide his surprise, though at this stage she wonders why he still is surprised by anything she knows. "Those two thousand," she says, looking at him with a little sympathy, "It's a... fall?" her brows are furrows, her lips pursed in thought

"Feint," he corrects, a slight quirk in his lips at her guess, but it's diminshed by the overwhelming feeling of guilt he feels at the sight of the sympathy in her eyes. "They don't make it, do they?"

"If you're asking me whether they took prisoners, I can't remember. Though I'm leaning towards no." It does nothing to help the boy, and so without thinking, she takes his hand in hers, squeezing gently. "Hey, it was a good plan and they knew what they were walking into. It secured you very first victory. Your first of many," she adds, earning her a questioning look for Robb. Brushing this off, she tells him, "But maybe there's another way. Maybe we can save their lives and still screw over Tywin."

Robb can't help a tiny smirk at her language. "And how do you propose that?"

"He still thinks you'll meet him at the Green Fork? Let him. While he's marching there, while he's waiting for you, you are going to secure Harrenhal as the forward base base for your army." Robb looks ready to argue, so she cuts him off before he can begin, "If you were planning to make Riverrun your base, you know it's a bad idea. It's too far west. Harrenhal on the other hand... right in the centre. You'd be able to control access between the Riverlands, Westernlands and the Crownlands from the look of it-" she leans away from the map, observing the terrain. "Huh, no wonder Tywin wanted it. It's a good position," she adds softly.

Robb hears her. "Tywin takes it?"

"Mhmm. Sometimes after you take Riverrun, he makes Harrenhal his first base for a while before retreating back to King's Landing."

"Why would he retreat to King's landing?"

"Because you're not the only one threatening to dethrone Joffrey."

"Stannis and Renly," Robb nods, recounting the names he'd heard in stories from passing times.

Nadia nods. "Story for another time," she tells him, still watching the map, still trying to convince herself that this might be a good move. Finally she looks to Robb for confirmation. "Whaddya think?"

He stares at her a few moments. It takes everything in her to not squirm, to not look away. Eventually, he allows a small smile to crack his lips. "It's plausible."

She grins up at him. "Really?" Robb nods, smiling a little more despite the shadow in his eyes. Her expression falls, remembering. "But your father-"

"You've done enough, Nadia. That will be all."

It's so abrupt, so disheartening, but she takes his dismissal without further argument. Nadia leaves the young Stark to himself, stopping once only to let her gaze linger on his figure hunched over his map, fingers trailing over the incarnate details of a direwolf figurine.

* * *

 **AUTHOR'S NOTE: *So that was the rebooted chapter.**


	30. Stone in a Pond

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers... I'm going to apologise for how short this chapter, though it does pack a small punch at the end - I'm back at Uni, so we'll see how we go for updates.**

 **Okay... Reviews:**

 **\- Barryium: Yeah I also was thinking I went too far orginally but that's because I was still hanging onto a plot that no longwr exists, that hasn't existed for a long time now. I'm going to let thecreative juices flow as some pretty big changes come at us in the next few chapters... As for Nadia and Robb's relationship, it will continue to be complicated as proven by this chapter here; just because she's told him the truth things will not be smooth sailing and he's still holding her at arm's length, using her for her convenience, now that she actually proves to be convenient - and hinestly that not going to sit well with her in future chapters - she is a 21st century woman after all. Her interactions with people outside the Stark circle is limited but really that's been in her beat interests to not raise too much suspicion and attention, till now. We've seen that she is somewhat familiar with Winterfell's soldiers, particularly Silas Quent and will get to see her circle of confidants grow in subsequent seasons as more characters from the show and books are ibtroduced into this storyline, larticularly as she begins to steps up with her duties. And yes, I wasn't expecting to introduce Torrhen Karstark that early but he was going to show up in a few chapters anyway, so I don't see the harm. Yes he will be a pivotal character but is Robb really the one who will be jealous?**

 **-line: Robb and Nadia are still very far from liking each other, let alone trusting each other. I want to say that they're a lot like Buffy and Spike but really no one is like Buffy and Spike.**

\- **Guest: There is a reason Nadia came to Westeros... this will be explored towards the end of season 2 and going into future seasons from there, particularky season 5 and 6, I'd say.**

 **Now onto the story. And don't forget to review or PM if you'd like...**

 **DISCLAIMER: i do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of George RR Martin and HBO. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **THEON**

"Four thousand men."

"Hope they're not as stupid as they look."

"You're one to talk, Benfred."

"You little-"

Theon rolls his eyes, barely suppressing a smirk at the sight of the Tallhart cousin's arguing, Benfred pinned to Brandon's side in a chokehold. Eion watches on, laughing at the mad pair.. Silas huffs under his breath acting as if pained by the idiots he's forced to associate with, though Theon knows he's deeply amused. But ever the fun patrol he is, Silas barks at them to cut off their tom-foolery.

"Oh come on, Silas. Just a bit fun," Benfred teases.

"Yeah, it's the least we're allowed. Given we're riding to our deaths and all," Brandon adds jokingly, grateful for the air in his lungs.

Theon frowns. "Better not let Robb hear you say that," he warns, voice dangerously threatening. It's effective in silencing them all. He returns his attention to the parade of soldiers setting into formation, prepared to move out. Scrutininsing eyes stray over the see of banners, their grey and blue sigil swirling and flickering in the wind.

Sheepish "sorry's" he hears from Benfred and Brandon. He doesn't much care for their apologies, so long as they're more careful with their tongues around Robb. A joke it may be, but the young Stark would still take it to heart. It's a trait shared by all the Stark men, he'd come to realise over the years, that they take all things too seriously. And personally. Once upon a time Theon had teased Jon for being such a girl because of it. It didn't take him long to realise the trait was one of character, of true nobility.

It's Silas who deigns the idiots they call friends worthy of a response: "Robb's our leader. Remember that. He's younger than all of us and has the most to lose. And if he didn't have any other choice, he wouldn't be asking us to go war with the Iron Throne."

Theon swallows hard, hoping none see him flinching at the words. Silently he curses Robb and Nadia for their foolishness. If only they'd acted sooner instead of dodging around one another awkwardly and then stubbornly. _'Young love,'_ his mind supplies snidely. Then again, he's not much better, recalling with clarity the times he'd all but begged Robb to revolt.

"He's right," Arthur says, riding up alongside them. "Robb would blame himself if anything happened to us."

"Why? He's not our King," Brandon asks, genuinely confused.

"No but he's Ned Stark's son," Theon mutters, though still loud enough for their group to hear. He's facing his horse now, ensuring the saddle is fitted properly, before he swings himself onto his steed. Looking across he sees that Silas has done the same. To Brandon, Theon turns, adding, "The way you Northerners speaks of Lord Stark, it's as if he's your father. Your protector. That duty falls to Robb, now more than ever."

Benfred frowns, an odd expression on his usually cheerful face. Theon has an inkling of what he's thinking, no doubt realising for the first time the weight of what they're doing, of what Robb's asking them to do. Suddenly seventeen seems far to young an age for the burden his friend must bear.

Horns are heard throughout the camps, a last call for all soldiers and squires to get ready to move out. Brandon, Benfred and Eion depart to take up reigns among Houses Tallhart and Blackwood. Theon looks to Arthur and to Silas, nodding silently to each. The ironborn then leads them to the front of the small calvary from House Stark.

A flash of deep blue catches his eye. The Lady Stark presses kisses to her son's face, before taking his hands. Her eyes catch Theon's over her son's shoulder; _'Bring him home,'_ are the words to leave silent lips, her eyes pleading with him. He responds with a curt nod. Of course Robb notices the interaction, for he looks over his shoulder to Theon, pressing his lips into a smile.

Theon watches as Catelyn squeezes her son's hands, drawing the Stark's attention back to her one last time. Robb leans forwards, laying a gentle kiss on her cheek and then another on her hands. Her strength wavering, Catelyn steps back.

There's a moment's pause, where the older woman glances back at the figure behind her. Robb and Theon's gaze follow hers. If Robb's back straightens, his shoulders tensing at the sight of the younger woman, no one says a word of it, least of all Theon.

Nervous. That's how he would describe Nadia. For once her wild hair is tamed, braids anchoring her short locks away from her face. Her dark eyes are withdrawn, fixed steadfastly on her twiddling fingers. "My lord," Theon vaguely hears her say.

"My lady," Robb nods. Her gaze reluctantly turns up to meet that of Robb's. Theon's unsure of the expression on Robb's face, though judging by his tense shoulders and the lack of Catelyn's glare, he'd suppose it's an expression of forced politeness and thinly veined discomfort.

Nadia appears to release a shaky breath, muttering, "Good luck," to Robb.

Offering her a curt nod, Robb leans forward. Nadia seems almost to flinch but catches herself at the last moment, forcing herself to stay still. Robb places a chaste kiss upon her right cheek, quickly moving back as if burned. Theon rolls his eyes, noting that Catelyn is now wearing a mask of veiled frustration. His eyes flicker back to Nadia, who he notes has also just quit her own observation of Cat. Her eyes briefly catch his as they pour over the men.

Robb's voice captures their attention once again, a stiff promise to her: "I'll see you when I return." Even Theon can hear the levels of emptiness in his tone. Robb makes a motion to step away, turning to his side.

And then he's not.

Theon can't help the drop of his jaw at the sight of his two friends, who only just manage to tolerate each other at the best of times, locked in a passionate kiss. Another time, he'd be teasing Robb for not making the first move. Because yes, it had been Nadia - who'd in a moment of indecision, reckless abandon or madness (he knows not when it comes to her) - to curl her fingers under his best friends lapel and spin him back into her, her other hand catching his cheek while she pressed her lips into his. Clearly she'd miscounted for the force of the action, for she'd jolted backwards, almost knocking herself over if not for Robb's hand instinctively catching her at her waist to keep her, and by extension himself, from falling in a graceless heap in front of all his men.

Slowly, Nadia pulls away, eyes fluttered closed. She appears almost... content. Until her eyes flutter open, that is, and a familiar sadness takes over her exotic features. She quickly withdraws her hands from Robb, but stays within his space. The banshee whispers something to the Stark, which Theon knows not. Forcing a smile, she then steps away, back to Lady Stark's side. "Be safe, my Lord," she calls out.

Perhaps dazed, perhaps not, Robb may be. But it takes him longer than expected to gather himself, offering one last farewell.


	31. A Mother's Insight

**Author's Note: Hello lovely readers! How have y'all been? So here we are with another chapter update... rest assured all of you will get your answers. If y'all have been missing Tyrion, as much as I have, Im sorry to say he's not in this chapter... but he will be in the next.**

 **Now onto the reviews: ... will be at the bottom of this chapter, mostly because, as I've already said, this chapter will answer a lot of your reviews.**

 **Now... onto the story.**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or any of its characters. They are the property of HBO and George RR Martin. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **¤ CATELYN ¤**

"Who is she?" Those words crack through the silent air like lightning in an empty field. Laid before her is an extravagant meal - well extravagant given the conditions they work with - yet after long days of riding atop a horse through the rain and sunshine, the Lady of Winterfell cannot bring herself to stomach any of the suckling pork or cheap wine. Her mind and heart are heavy with worry for her eldest, her blue eyes straying towards the curtained entrance every little while, expecting of some news. The younger woman seated to her left from her seems to be rift with similar turmoil, though she does better to mask her emotions beneath a steely, dour expression. Whatever surprise she shows, is directed now at Catelyn's question. Nadia seems about to ask what she means when a flicker of understanding passes behind her dark gaze.

Pursing her lips, she thinks a moment before answering. "In one version, it's Jeyne Westerling-"

"Westerling? Of the Westernlands? They had a daughter once but she died of pox as a child. Now there are only sons... who no doubt fight for Tywin Lannister."

Catelyn watches Nadia nod slowly, weighing up something in her head, as if confirming some hypothesis. "I guess that leaves Talisa Maegr."

"Talisa? Sounds exotic."

Nadia hums in affirmation. "A highborn of Volantis," she begins, "-who will join Robb's cause as a field medic... it will be love at first sight, I think." The girl has taken to absentmindedly circling the rim of her winecup, gaze steadfastly fixed upon the flickering candlelight. She seems so... sad almost, that Catelyn can't quite help asking how that makes her feel.

The Banshee blinks as if waking from a deep sleep. "Fine, I guess... Should it make me feel anything?"

"I don't know, should it?" Catelyn raises a brow at the girl knowingly.

Nadia sighs. "This about the kiss?" Catelyn doesn't reply, but it's answer enough. "I told you, it was just a kiss. It meant nothing. Robb had been stiff and tense and that little peck on the cheek doesn't exactly scream, ' _I married a complete nobody because I was desperately in love with her and didn't want to die before proclaiming it to the heavens',"_ Nadia explains emphatically with air quotations.

The older woman eyes her studiously before giving in, a sigh of her own. She can't deny it, Robb's farewell to his Nadia looked anything but loving and desperate. She too couldn't contain her frustration when it had happened; all the boy had to do was act, just pretend for a few mere seconds in front of all his men, just long enough to let the rumours breathe. She watches the way the younger girl goes back to picking at her food. "I know you don't like this-"

"I hate it," Nadia cuts her off. Catelyn raises a brow at the girl, her face stern despite becoming used to Nadia's lacking manners. The banshee bites her lip, no doubt feeling regret for her rudeness. Sighing, the girl whispers a soft apology, before continuing... "It's just - this is a bad idea. A really horrible, stupid - no offence, my lady - terrible idea."

"Is it really so horrible being married to my son?" Catelyn asks, concern with just a slight hint of teasing in her tone.

"You mean asides from the fact that we're not actually married?" Nadia rebuts. Catelyn doesn't budge. They've discussed this, numerous times, but never in Robb's absence. She knows that there are some things both youths keep from her, secrets, things regarding their interactions - particularly whatever odd friendship they once shared in Winterfell. Now could be the time to unearth just how estranged the two have become, and how close they had once been. Catelyn knows the chances are rather slim. "I'll do my duty, play the role of a good wife and turn an eye when Robb meets her-" Catelyn wants to rebuke the last comment but the girl steals ahead, "-and when all is said and done, I'll disappear."

Catelyn frowns. "Disappear?"

It's the banshee's turn to raise a brow. "Robb and I aren't actualy married. He'll want to marry _her._ I'm not gonna stand in the way of that." Nadia dregs her wine. "Not everyone gets a chance at true love-" the girl says slowly, "- But if we played our cards right, Robb will. He deserves that at least." When Nadia smiles, it's a bittersweet smile that makes Catelyn's heart melt for her. _'The poor child does not realise it yet,'_ she muses sympathetically, quietly wondering.

"And how would you manage? War or no war, nowhere is safe for young woman on her own." _'Especially one with a foreign face,'_ Catelyn thinks.

"I'm a big girl. I'd hope by then I'd learn enough about your culture to handle my own." Catelyn feels ready to protest these absurd words but perhaps the younger woman catches on, for she rests her hand on the the Lady's own, gentle and oddly comforting despite her calloused palms. "I'd miss you too, Catelyn," she says as if answering her thoughts.

Catelyn feels an aching warmth spread through her; it hurts so because it only reminds her of the hole in her heart where her daughter had once been.

She could say something just as kind, but she's afraid she's allowed enough of her weakness to show through - and somehow she knows that this girl would take no offence. "Whatever happened to turning an eye?"

The girl smiles at her, soft but bittersweet. "Contrary to popular belief, my Lady, I do have some self-respect."

Oddly enough, she thinks of Ned in this moment. They were strangers; she had not even met him when she'd been engaged to his brother. Yet all of a sudden, Brandon had died and she was walking before the seven towards a grim-faced boy who looked as unhappy as she felt. Catelyn Tully never loved Brandon Stark but she did grow fond of him; this young man, rugged but lean, taller but smaller in stature than her intended betrothed was someone she feared she could never love. Eddard Stark had been courteous to her during their wedding ceremony and feast - courteous but cold. His smile was fixed, his eyes never held the twinkle of adoration she'd dreamt her husband would wear for her. When he kissed her it was fleeting and chaste.  
Then the bedding came. He respected her enough to threaten death to any man who dared touch her, and none did. And when they were finally alone... he held her as she cried. He stroked her back as she wept for Brandon and whined about the cruelty of gods and men to force this upon them.  
Catelyn still recalls the way her husband's fingers ran through her auburn hair, murmuring sweet promises of protection and honour. He did not take her that night. Nor for a whole week; instead they'd lie in bed and talk. For hours all they would do is talk, about their childhood, their dreams, their likes and dislikes. They made love the night before he left Riverrun to march against the Mad King. And in that beautiful night of passion, she was blessed with a beautiful babe with the Tully look.  
He was so beautiful, she knew he'd be handsome, knew he may even break a few hearts some day. She knew Ned would love him, love her.  
But then he brought home Jon Snow. Catelyn never felt so broken in her life, so afraid and alone was she. She'd hated him. She'd hated Ned. She wanted to take her son and leave for Riverrun. But the boys bonded. And in her hardest of hearts, Catelyn knew Jon Snow was a good brother.  
It took years for her and Ned to reconcile the blemish on their marriage. They started by talking; they talked more about their childhoods, about their new hopes and dreams, about the dreams they regret they'll never have. Catelyn recalls with perfect clarity the moment she realised she loved her husband; it was when she was staring down at the pale, wheezing little face of Jon Snow stricken with pox and possibly dying. She realised then, how afraid she was to lose Ned as well as how much she admired him for his kindness towards the boy where other men would not have been so honourable.

Sitting in this stuffy tent, candles burning incessant fumes that suffocate her as he buries herself in her worries, Catelyn wonders what troublesome love her son will find. Will it be simple and sweet, blessed with fortune such as in the tales Sansa adores to hear, or will his love be accursed, wrought with pain and sacrifice. She doesn't know and not knowing makes her afraid.

"Do you hear that?" the girl's voice is so small, Catelyn almost doesn't hear her. Her ears immediately strain for the subtlest hint of Robb's return, but all she receives is the sound of crickets chirruping in the cool summer breeze outside, accompanied by the shuffling of her guards' feet as they make their rounds. Catelyn moves towards the entrance, brushing aside the partitions. To their right sits the Trident, glistening in the descending sunlight, and to their left stands the rolling hills and forests separating her from the Whispering Woods.

She sees few men soldiers and squires kept back to hold the camp but no other sign of Robb's forces.

 _'No. It's too early. The battle could not have even started yet.'_

She turns back to Nadia to voice this. The words catch in her throat at the sight of the girl's pained face, stricken with sorrow and fearful curiosity. The nineteen year old's fingers trail the grained wood of the table surface, almost reverently mapping every contour and groove with a strange fascination, simultaneously in awe and afraid. "Faces..." she whispers, "So many... in the wood..." It's as if she's lost somewhere in thought. Then Nadia blinks and the spell that took hold of her breaks. "Sorry," she apologises, fingers massaging her temples.

A maternal fear fills Catelyn. Moving back around the table, she crouches at the girl's side. Without even touching her, she can feel the feverish heat radiating from Nadia's skin. "You don't look well."

"I don't feel it... maybe I should get an early shut eye," her voice betrays her fear of doing that very thing.

"Perhaps it's best if you stay here. I can watch over you then."

"I'll be fine Lady Catelyn."

"Your visions-"

"Are my problem." Catelyn is about to rebut again but is cut off by the girl's insistence that she can take care of herself... "I can handle it. Don't worry."

Nadia can not handle it. Catelyn could hardly believe the squire when he told her Robb's wife had strolled out of camp and is now down by the Trident, muttering nonsensical nothings to herself like a madwoman. Yet here she is, underneath the moonlight and pouring skies, on her knees before the Trident, its waters lapping at her knees as her hands bury themselves in its black depths.

She's almost hesitant to approach the girl, an eerie sense of fear rising in the pit of her stomach as it had once done, many nights ago when her eyes first beheld the Banshee. She reminds herself that she is Lady Stark of Winterfell, that Valyrian steel could not even sway her from protecting one of her own. And in some strange way, this girl has become one of their own, risking her life twice for Catelyn's son.

She dismisses her escorting guards. The men are rather reluctant to leave her, insisting Lannister spies could be afoot. "If the Lannisters try to kill me, I'll scream for you," _'Or perhaps Nadia will scream at them,'_ "But if you do your duty right and return to the camp to guard it, then I should not need worry about Tywin Lannister's soldiers slipping through. Now leave me with the girl."

The men abandon her quickly, with a sheepish "Yes, milady."

Approaching Nadia, it becomes clearer and clearer to Catelyn that she isn't out here seeking solace; no, Nadia is still quite trapped in her nightmares. She rocks back and forth a little, muttering soft pleas under her breath, begging to be released by some unseen force.

Hesitating a moment, Catelyn calls out, "Nadia."

No reply. She steps closer and calls again.

The third time, she is barely ten feet away. The third time, Nadia rises to her feet. Slowly she turns towards Catelyn. She wears nothing but a long shirt that reaches mid-thigh, drenched and sticking to her like a second skin. Her feet are bare and muddied, arms hanging limply by her side. Drenched raven locks stick to Nadia's head and neck, like an inky web. When Nadia lifts her head, their eyes meet; Catelyn needs all but one moment to look into the girl's glass-eyed gaze to know what's to come.

Lady Stark has heard Nadia scream twice before; for her sake, she is glad this experience is like that of the former two. The banshee's wail is a haunting sound that makes you feel as if all the happiness has gone out from the world and, for the briefest of moments, makes you lose hope that you'll ever find happiness again. How much worse must it be for the girl herself?

When the ordeal is over, the girl collapses. Catelyn manages to break her fall, wrapping her arms around Nadia's shoulders to keep her head from hitting the ground. The Banshee weeps.

The older woman doesn't care that it's raining and her clothes are soaked to the bone, she doesn't care that she's about to lose her second night of sleep in a row, she doesn't care that her guards have come running their faces frantic and puffing as they search for phantom enemies. She only cares about the weeping girl in her arms, whose phantoms are more alive than what she once thought, and what this could possibly mean for her son.

It feels like hours when it's only been minutes, that she greets the warmth of her tent. A subdued Nadia follows in tow, wrapped in a cloak generously donated by one of the guardsmen - apparently his father suffered from night terrors too before he took his life.

"I'm sorry," the girl whispers, so softly, Catelyn must strain to hear it, even in the silence of her tent.

"For what?"

"Embarassing you... what they'll say about Robb, now."

"As if they haven't been saying things already. What's another whisper for the wind?" Lady Stark answers with a soft smile, trying to ease the younger woman. But alas her efforts are in vain. Brushing inky black locks from the girl's face, she tilts her head up. "I'll take care of it later. For now, let me take care of you."

From what she's observed of Nadia, she doesn't dislike being doted on by others though it does make her incredibly uncomfortable, never really having servants take care of her. So when she doesn't contest to Catelyn drawing a bath for her and bathing her, that's when Catelyn truly grasps how unsettled Nadia has become. Yet she says nothing. She knows the girl will speak in her own time.

Silently Catelyn settles to rinsing the girl's hair. Dark curly locks are as smooth and straight as silk between her fingers. It almost reminds her of when she used to bathe Arya. The rest of her children have her auburn hair but not Arya, and perhaps that's why she always relished touching her youngest daughter's hair so much, because she looks like a true Stark. Though Catelyn will never admit it, sometimes she was glad when Arya would return from her adventures, covered in mud from head to toe, simply because Catelyn would have open season to grooming her daughter's hair. Her heart fills with sadness as she wonders now if she'll ever have that chance again. Will she ever see Arya grow into the beauty of her Aunt Lyanna?

Nadia shifts in the water, reaching for a clean rag. She scrubs at her forearms so fiercely, Catelyn fears the girl will shred her skin with it. Releasing her hair, Catelyn moves around the side of the tub, carefully stills the girl's hands with her own. "Any more and you will ruin your skin."

"I have to get the blood off."

Confused, Catelyn searches her arms for any sign of blood but there is nothing that stains her copper skin. "Nadia?"

Nadia then tells her of how she wandered barefoot through a forest. She tells her of the trees as black as shadows, that called to her, whispered to her. Nadia talks of the sky raining blood; of how when she sought shelter, the shadows in the trees chased her at her heels, beating, scratching, grasping at her. She tells Catelyn of how she fell and could do nothing as wolves and lions tore at one another around her. Finally Nadia tells Catelyn of the names that engraved themselves into her skin; two hundred and forty three names tattooed her arms with her own blood.

When she's done telling her tale, Catelyn let's her dry herself, then wraps a silk robe around the girl and leads Nadia towards the cot. "You need to rest. Tomorrow will be a long day for you, Healer."

"Please, don't let me go back in there!"

"Rest." Catelyn presses the nightshade tonic to the banshee's lips. "I'll be here."

"Thank you, mama," Nadia whispers groggily, sleep claiming her in a matter of moments.

Catelyn doesn't rest that night. She keeps vigil by the girl, pressing a cool cloth to her head and holding her hands; her heart and mind are heavy with worry.

One thousand seven hundred and forty three; as the first rays of sunlight break across the mountains outside, Catelyn bitterly realises she never asked if Robb's name was one of them.

* * *

 **Author's note:... well what did y'all think. To answer the reviews from the previous chapter:**

 **\- Guest: I guess in a sense Catelyn was hazing Nadia here for the kiss but as we can see not entirely for the same reason. Yes, we've been building up this reveal for a while, but yes Nadia has to be Robb's fake wife and before anyone gets their undies in a twist, I'm aware it's a veru bad plan as is Nadia as you can tell by Nadia's opinion of it. It's a desperate act but as the chapters go on, it'll make sense why it seems so plausible to others, specifically Robb's soldiers, regardless of whether or not they approve. Ive imagined Nadia taking on the Mountain - it would be dangerous but with practice she could defeat him. Her scream is powerful enough to shatter bone as we've seen her do to the assassin and Wildlings. From season 2 and particularly in season 3 onwards, we'll get to see Nadia's powers on dispkay some more, see Nadia discover what she really is and what her powers mean as well as unlock new abilities. She's something very ancient so it will take quite a long time to unravel all that she is and is capable of.**

 **\- Barryium: Yup that happened. Lemme know what you now think of the fallout of the kiss. It was very OOC for both Nadia and Robb, and as you can tell in this chapter there was a reason for it.**

\- **Gentle Blossom: You were spot-on with your last review, that kiss was more than it seemed. I loved having it from Theon's POV because I think to have it from either Robb's or Nadia's would have made it seem like a lot of thought was put into the kiss, and as I didnt want to invest their thoughts and feelings into it - especially after the rollercoaster the last few chapters have been - I just wanted the kiss to be a kiss and give y'all a shock which it delivered.**


	32. Honour between a rock and a hard place

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello lovely readers! Did you think I forgot about you? Heck no. I've simply been drowning in Uni and work and life. It's actually pretty sad and makes me wish I had a love life that was the source of all my problems... anywho!**

 **I am back with another chapter, albeit a teeny tiny one. But fret not, for I will have the next few coming out over the next couple of months - bare with me though as I have exams in two weeks.**

 **I am going to quickly answer a few reviews before we get into the chapter:**

 **-Rivke: Truth be told, when Nadia starts to get a handle on her powers, something new happens. Season 2 and particular 3, will see a lot my development in terms of discovering Nadia's powers and purpose. Thankfullybthe angsty annoyingness of season 1 is drawing to a close soon.**

 **\- just a fan: I know, 31 chapters to only have one unromantic kiss... i'm evil. But honestly wait till season 2 comes around because if you think these two had problems before... don't worry the sexual tension cranks up a whole lot too, and we will get to see some sparks fly between certain people. At the moment these two a barely friends, and barely attracted to one another because of their issues, albeit there are other qualities about each other that we do at times see them drawn to.**

 **\- The fake wife thing: yeah it is a bit confusing, but im sure probably as confusing as Robb marrying Talisa/Jeyne. The previous chapter sort of explored the reasons, and as we go forth we'll see more details about their marriage trickle through. How doem the Northerners feel? Mixed. As we've hinted, some have been suspecting something going on between Robb and Nadia; others will be bafdled and opposed, because in all fairness it makes no sense and isn't very wise since she, apparently, offers no advantage.**

 **Alright folks, onto the chapter...**

 **DISCLAIMER: I do not own Game of Thrones or its characters. They are the property of George R.R. Martin and HBO. I own Nadia alone.**

* * *

 **¤ NED ¤**

Water drips from cracks in the stone above.

It's an agonisingly dull melody in the the absurd silence of these dungeons.

Every few hours or so, the faint sound of arourmed feet pass his door, off to inflict punishment on some other poor soul. But they never stop at his, save for once day to slide a bowl of scraps along the floor to him.

The first few days, Ned refused these meals. The fourth day, his hunger gave out. He's lost count of how many days it's been since then. A couple of moons at the very least.

Not much longer before then, he'd been lying in warm bed, his lady wife, beautiful and elegant even at her age, in his arms, writhing with passion.

These are the thoughts that comfort him now. His memories of his dearests are all that allow him to hold onto his sanity in this neverending solitude. But the soul-soothing is almost always followed not long by his anxieties; they seem to grow everyday. The last he heard, Sansa is being kept under lock and key, like a bird unaware it's entrapped in a gilded cage. Another man would think her stupid to still be pining after her father's imprisoner, but Ned knows the girl is not to blame. He had fed into her fantasies, and now he fears that the gods are demanding the price be paid with interest.

Arya was never the same.

She'd spent far too much time with the boys to believe in happily ever afters. All the same, Arya is still a girl, a child, and for all her wiles, she is still lost to them. Lost to Cersei. Ned holds onto a sliver of hope that perhaps his youngest daughter is safer that way, no doubt around Flea Bottom dressed like a dirty little boy. But how long would that charade last? How long would Arya survive?

Ned shifts his weight, his arse grow numb against the dry straw yet nowhere the discomfort of his own wicked thoughts.

As if the gods do not think he is suffering enough, the deadbolt to his cell is unlatched, rusted iron echoing eerily in the quiet. A defeated sigh escapes his lips and he turns to the wall, not wanting to waste his gaze on his most unwelcome guest.

A pair of light feet enter his cell, the door closing in behind them. A short silence follows. Ned detects the slightest hitch of breath. It's been a week at least since the queen last burdened him with her smirking presence. No doubt the sight, and smell, of him must be even more decrepit than she remembered.

Deciding to have the first word, for once, Ned is surprised by his voice, its normally rough baritone barely a broken whisper, exhausted from thirst and lack of use… "You'll have to figure me if I don't bow."

"Seems unnecessary to waste a bow on little old me. Not that I wouldn't appreciate it. Nevertheless, all is forgiven."

The reply is not what the Northerner is expecting. Or rather, the one from which it came.

"I take it you were expecting my sister?" Tyrion states more than ask.

"You're doin' her bidding now?"

"My father's actually," the dwarf replies, distastefully. He moves towards Ned, taking seat a mere few feet away by the adjacent wall. Tyrion drops the torch in his hand, carefully so as to expunge the flames. Lying between them, the firelight illuminates the shadows of their faces and little else of their surroundings, of which the Lannister seems to take an avid interest. "Doesn't seem very cosy down here," Tyrion grimaces.

"I won't lie, Lannister. Go run and tell your sister and father that."

"Lie? Who said anything about lying?"

"What do you want then?"

"Want? I'm a Lannister, there is little I want that I cannot afford on my own terms. I am merely here to share some knowledge." Tyrion's fingers twitch, dancing on his crossed knees, no doubt restless and wishing for bottle of wine to wrap themselves around.

Ned quirks a brow at the younger man, irritation licking at the surface of his pain. "And what do you know, Lannister?"

"I know your son is hopelessly outmatched even if he does manage to exhume to backing of the Riverlands from my brother's army. Which, if we are being honest, is highly unlikely. I know the Lady Catelyn is with his caravan. I know as well as you do that Sansa's protection is not guaranteed with that nephew of mine, regardless of your fate now. She will always be the daughter of a traitor. I-" at this Tyrion hesitates, causing an even more unsettling feeling to curl deep within Ned's chest. "I also happen to know that Stannis has been whispering tales regarding the heritage of my nephews and niece… rumours," and the way Tyrion says rumours, has Ned believing the dwarf himself does not consider them so - "Word has gotten back to Joffrey. Hundreds of children, some older than him, and some only infants, are being hunted down like deer… pun not intended."

"Cersei is executing Robert's bastards?" Ned is aghast with shock. He knew her to be cruel and unloving, but he never thought her to be this wicked to hurt innocent children. She had even admitted that Bran's fall was not her intention but rather her twin's half-witted act of true love.

Tyrion purses his lips. "Not Cersei," he replies, growing more stoic by the minute.

"Joffrey."

"My sister is losing control of him. I daresay, I fear for you, Lord Stark."

"And what would you have me do? Swear fealty to the crown?"

"It's better than having your head chopped off isn't it?"

Ned stays silent a moment, before answering, "I made a vow to Robert. I swore on my honour-"

"Honour is very nice and dandy, but means little if you are dead," Tyrion cuts him off sternly. "Confess without provocation. Swear fealty to Joffrey, and put these rumours to rest."

"He is not the true heir."

"It doesn't matter. Who cares which arse sits on the Iron Throne, so long as the people do not suffer? Are you really willing to justify the lives of your precious countrymen, the lives of many a man, you and old, across the seven kingdoms, waging yet another tireless war, all for your honour? For a promise you gave to a dead man?"

Ned settles back, silent, considering Tyrion's words. Was it worth it? Any of this? He thinks of his family, of the sacrifices they've made all because of his friendship to Robert. They trusted Ned. With their lives and their home. And now they stand to lose it all, because he was looking into Jon Arryn's death, because he feared for Robert's life. But Robert's dead. So why does any of this still matter?

Finally, he meets Tyrion's hopeful expression. Clearly his throat, voice hoarse, Ned replies, "You said it yourself, Lannister. Joffrey lacks control… Robert's heir or not, seems to me that war was always inevitable."


	33. AUTHOR'S NOTE

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

 **Hello wonderful readers. I'm really sorry to say, but this story has gone on hiatus long enough and unfortunately I've decided to discontinue it.**

 **I'm as upset as you are. Heartbroken really.**

 **Life has simply gotten in the way. Uni has been absolutely crazy, and I've been doing some soul-searching too (not to sound carried away). I always meant to come back to this and keep writing, I had so many ideas going up to season 7, but as much as I want to, I've simply lost an interest to keep going. I think I spent too much time plotting at the start, before writing, that it felt like I was writing the story about a hundred times by the time I started; everything began to feel fixed at one point, despite how much I was trying to let the characters lead me on.**

 **I love writing but writing this story doesn't inspire me anymore, and started to feel like an obligation. Even now I read reviews and feel touched by your love; it reminds me of how much I loved this story, but it's gotten away from me.**

 **I can also admit that I've changed a lot in this past year, and the person I was when I started this story is not the person I am now. I find myself wanting in my writing; I want to develop my writing skills and take on plots that correlate with my frame of mind now, my new hopes and dreams and visions. It doesn't help that I'm still heavily pre-occupied with Uni; this is my final year and I'm starting to make decision about my career and which path my life is gonna take, and somehow reading and writing this story made me feel stuck in a past version of myself, with an old frame of mind, a girl who was more naive and wanted different things and had different beliefs, but I'm not longer her and this story no longer inspires me and my life.**

 **I'm considering writing original pieces but want to be able to have more time to dedicate towards those projects.**

 **I've also lately been drawn back to the MCU. Some years ago, I had several plots in mind, some crossovers, some not. As many of you can relate, I grew up with the MCU. They were a source of inspiration for me in wanting to begin some original works of my own in the future, as well as a source of inspiration and reflection of the social and political crises we are witnessing in our world today. After watching Endgame today, I think if I am to continue with fanfiction I might want to go back to writing some MCU fics to help build on my own writing abilities, as I feel that style is more in-line with what I'd like to do.**

 **Life has also been rather hectic lately. As I've said before, there has been a lot of soul-searching in recent months. It might sound ridiculous, but I have gone through a bit of remodelling, mentally and physically. Trying to figure out who I am, what I want from life; adopting healthy practices of self-reflection to express my emotions, as well as weighing up my options for what direction I want my career to begin/take as I go into my final year of my degree.**

 **Again I am really sorry that this story has come to an early end. And I also apologise for my random spiel here, but I felt like I owed you guys an explanation, even if it was a poor one.**

 **Thank you for all your support. I hope you continue to follow and read my other projects should I continue to post.**

 **Cheers,**


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